So Kiss Me Goodbye
by SenoritaSquiggles
Summary: Thanks to “Inter-House Unity,” Harry is involuntarily thrown together for a school project with a Slytherin who would rather torment him than work civilly. What he doesn’t realize is they’re both just gears in the very complicated machine of war.
1. Prologue: Godric's Hollow

_Rated T for now (I sound like a video game commercial...), just because I'd rather move on with the plot than linger on nasty, gory details in any violent scene which would have bumped this up to M rating.

* * *

_

**PROLOGUE  
Godric's Hollow**

Draco Malfoy huffed impatiently and folded his arms across his chest. He looked around the clearing he stood in and took in the stony faces of his father's fellow Death Eaters. His father, Rodolphus and Bellatrix Lestrange, Crabbe and Goyle's parents... Not a single one of them ever spoke, but from time to time one would look at another and they would nod.

Draco wrinkled his nose to fight off an itch. His father had woken him up at two in the morning for this? To stand around and do nothing? When he had arrived he had been thrilled to be part of a clandestine meeting like this, but after two hours of waiting the anticipation was wearing off and he was bored out of his skull. Ever since the end of the Triwizard Tournament Draco had heard nothing but news about Voldemort's return. He had _heard_, not _seen_. If his father was as close to Voldemort as he claimed, then why hadn't Draco seen him yet? Not once during the summer had he caught a glimpse of the Dark Lord, and it was beginning to irritate him.

He turned his attention to the surrounding area. _Godric's Hollow,_ he thought. _So this is where Potter's parents died. Voldemort killed them right here..._

Despite the warm July evening, a giddy sort of shiver ran through him.

He shot a glance at his father and idly wondered what it would be like to lose his parents. His mother... well, he supposed he would miss her a little bit. She was always there to offer him advice when he needed it, and she constantly worried about him. She was worldly and knowledgeable, but she hardly ever showed that around Lucius... but whether it was out of fear or shrewdness Draco wasn't sure.

He already knew he wouldn't care all that much if his father died—Lucius had never been much more than a forced father figure to Draco, anyway. After all, he was only Draco's father because he was married to Narcissa. Blood may be thicker than water, but it can't force anyone to love their family.

Lucius Malfoy, Draco decided, was most certainly not a good father. He provided money, food, and a lavish roof over his family's head, but he also verbally beat Draco down and habitually snuck little comments into their conversations that could be akin to mind games and left Draco torturing himself over them late into the night. Whenever Draco fell as a child, Lucius never made an attempt to catch him; rather, he was always there after the fact to point out what his son had done wrong and to make him feel badly about his decision, as if he had fallen on purpose. Narcissa, on the other hand, was a devoted wife and doting mother, and it escaped Draco how none of her fondness for her family had rubbed off on his father in the past however many years they had been married.

Draco clamped down lightly on his tongue as he watched his father bend his head down and speak in hushed tones to a burly man with a face like a tree stump. No, he didn't care about his father. He most certainly feared and respected him for his ability to be so influential, but he didn't like him one bit. It would be no great loss to Draco if his father was killed.

Besides, if Lucius died, then _he_ got to move up in the ranks.

Draco glanced up sharply as a twig cracked off to his right. As if separating itself from the darkness around them, a hooded figure glided silently toward him, gathering Death Eaters in its wake like a magnet. Draco stood up straight with a menacing glare from his father. As the figure passed him it turned its hooded face and Draco swore its red eyes bore right through to his heart. Despite the jumpy feeling tingling in his chest he grinned to himself as the cluster of Death Eaters moved inward toward the figure.

_Finally_.


	2. The Daily Prophet

**CHAPTER I  
The Daily Prophet**

_Don't kill him_, Harry repeated to himself for the millionth time, _don't kill him. You can't. The Muggle police would get involved. They don't know who you are; you're not famous here. No one would help you out_.

He gripped his ink bottle so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Gritting his teeth, he momentarily thought about charming that damn ball to fly straight out the window, because he knew Dudley would be far too lazy to retrieve it. Then, with a sinking feeling, he realized that he'd most likely be expelled if he did even the simplest act of magic. After the incident at the Triwizard Tournament, the Ministry would probably be thrilled to get him out of the way so there would be no more "rumors" about Voldemort's return.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

Dudley had been throwing a tennis ball against the wall between his and Harry's rooms for the past half hour, and every five seconds he heard a loud _thud_ against the wall. He had tried ignoring it, and had even tried humming to himself to drown out the sound, but nothing worked. He knew that Dudley was doing it just to aggravate him, but the last thing he needed was for Dudley to _know_ that it was annoying, because it would just be more incentive for him to continue doing it. So for thirty whole minutes — and three hundred and sixty-two _thuds_ — Harry had put up with the irritating sound.

_Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud._

With a growl, Harry threw himself off the bed and toward the door. He stomped over to his cousin's bedroom door and knocked on it as politely as he could, suppressing the urge to slam his fist against it.

"What do you want?" came Dudley's bored voice.

_Thud_.

Harry inhaled deeply. "Would you mind throwing that thing against the other wall?" he tried. "I'm trying to read."

The thudding stopped. A set of monstrously heavy steps pounded across the room and suddenly Dudley's piggish face appeared as he opened the door a crack. "Trying to read _what_?" he sneered. "Your freak books? Trying to do your homework after you've been told not to?"

Harry glared at him. "No, actually," he lied. "There are these so-called _books_ in the house that people _read_—"

"DAD!!" Dudley yelled. "He's doing his homework!"

"Shut up!" Harry shouted. He ran to the top of the stairs and leaned over the railing. "I'm just trying to read a book!" he yelled down to his uncle. "He won't stop throwing things at my wall!"

Several moments of tense silence later, his uncle appeared at the bottom of the stairs, his face that ugly shade of purple that reminded Harry of a bruise. "_What the bloody hell is going on?_" he boomed.

"I'm trying to read something—"

"What is it?" Uncle Vernon hissed. "It had better not be anything to do with _that place!_"

"Probably is," Dudley interjected.

"It's not!" Harry insisted angrily. "It's..." His mind raced trying to think of a title of any book he had seen in the house within the last week. "...It's Shakespeare," he mumbled.

_Shakespeare?_ he thought. _I don't know anything about Shakespeare!_

Dudley snorted behind him, and his uncle's suspicious look didn't help matters. "Yeah right," Dudley huffed. "You don't know the least thing about that guy! They wouldn't even teach it at _your _school."

Uncle Vernon grunted in agreement from the bottom landing.

"Listen, it's not my fault if you're too dim to understand it," Harry spat. He turned back to his uncle. "It's all I've got around here," he pointed out, "so I don't see why I can't just read it in peace."

His uncle heaved a bothered sigh. "It's not bothering me at all," he announced. "If you've got a problem with it then go somewhere else where none of the neighbors can see you."

Harry gaped. "But it's my room—"

"It's only your room because we were gracious enough to let you stay in it!" Uncle Vernon boomed.

Harry, despite his loathing for his uncle, bit his tongue and remained silent. If they so chose, his aunt and uncle could kick him out of "his" room and force him back into the cupboard he had lived in for the first eleven years of his life — and if he barely fit in it back then, he seriously doubted he would be able to now. All he could do was glare at the horrible man and avoid an argument that might result in him being more miserable for the rest of the summer.

"Fine," he muttered through gritted teeth. He walked back to his own room and closed his door loudly, turning the lock behind him. He hastily shoved all his books and school supplies into his trunk and pushed it to the back of his closet, tossing some clothes on top of it to make it less noticeable.

A sudden screech from Hedwig, who had previously been asleep in her cage, made Harry jump. He turned toward her and saw her amber eyes dart back and forth between him and the window, where a large spotted owl was perched with a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ clutched in its talons. It flapped its wings and tapped its beak on the windowpane impatiently.

Harry crossed the room and pushed the window open to allow the bird in. It immediately dropped the newspaper into his outstretched hand and held out its leg, to which a small leather pouch was tied, expecting payment. Harry pulled some coins out of his pocket and dropped the correct change into the pouch, and the owl promptly took flight out his window. Harry watched it soar over the houses of Privet Drive for a moment and then turned attention to the newspaper in his hand. As he read the bold headline, his stomach dropped and his eyes widened.

_**HARRY POTTER FEARED DEAD**_

"For crying out loud..." Harry muttered. He continued to read through the article, despite his urge to rip it up and set it on fire.

_Story by Rita Skeeter. Since the death of Hogwarts student Cedric Diggory during the Triwizard Tournament held last month, The Daily Prophet has repeatedly tried to reach the famous Harry Potter for his account of what happened on that fateful night. However, the famed young Wizard, since the end of the school term, is nowhere to be found. "Harry is perfectly safe at his place of residence with his family," Albus Dumbledore told a Daily Prophet correspondent. Unfortunately, the Daily Prophet's efforts to get in touch with Mr. Potter have so far been fruitless; the address given by the school is not actually his place of residence. A reputable source says that Mr. Potter is in fact dead: "I've seen the body myself," he stated.  
Updates on Mr. Potter's situation are, of course, given daily, but the outcome of this young Wizard's life indeed seems grim._

Harry reread the last few lines in disbelief. "Mr. Potter is in fact dead..." he muttered. He snorted as he noted who wrote the article. "Bloody crazy," he muttered, "every last one of them."

He jumped as the phones throughout the house rang. When no one picked it up after the second ring, he vaulted over his bed to the nightstand where and old dusty telephone sat, ringing shrilly.

"Hello?" he asked.

"HARRY?!" a hysterical voice sobbed into his ear. "Harry, is that you??"

Harry winced. "Yeah, Hermione, it's me," he said loudly, trying to talk over her.

"Oh, Harry, thank God! I just read the _Daily Prophet_, and—"

"Yeah, I got it too. But I don't think anyone's going to believe it. I mean, look who wrote it!" Harry rationalized. "The woman belongs in an institution!"

Hermione sighed into the phone. "I know, it's crazy. But I just thought for a second... that—"

"I know. But at least Dumbledore's still looking out for me," Harry interjected. "I mean, he gave the _Prophet_ a fake address and everything."

"Right..." Hermione sniffed. She paused for a moment. "Harry?"

"What?"

"Are you alright? I mean, staying with the Dursleys and such?"

Harry frowned. "Well, it's certainly no barrelful of laughs, but they're pretty much leaving me alone," he shrugged. "I think their hatred for me has gotten to a point where they'd rather not interact with me at all."

"That's not what I meant," Hermione chided. "I was talking about..."

She trailed off, and for a moment Harry wondered if his uncle had unplugged the phone. "Hermione? You there?"

"Oh my god," Hermione whispered into the phone. "Harry... turn to page three."

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Harry did as he was told. On the third page of the newspaper, a bold headline read, "**Attack leaves one dead, three others injured**." Beneath the headline was a picture with Ministry members and reporters surrounding a body on the floor of a small room that Harry found oddly familiar. The hairs on his neck stood up as he continued to read the text:

_On the evening of July 13__th__, a surprise attack in Knockturn Alley left three civilians wounded and a shopkeeper dead. Perfidus Borgin, owner of Borgin and Burkes, was found dead in his own shop after witnesses to the crime notified Ministry officials; one onlooker with minor wounds claimed that she saw "several small pouches crash through the window and explode." Ministry officials reported that the weapons used in the attack were of a "scientific" Muggle nature. Aurors have been assigned to the case and are working on several leads._

Harry exhaled loudly as he realized he had been holding his breath while he had been reading. "Wow..." he breathed.

"This isn't good, Harry." Hermione's voice sounded small and frightened.

Harry rolled the paper up and tossed it under his bed. "Why not? This is no different than the other attacks we've been reading about," he pointed out. "The Death Eaters have been coming out of the woodwork since the Tournament; this is their welcome back party."

"Didn't you read it?" Hermione urged. She was becoming hysterical again. "The attacks were used with _Muggle science_, Harry. They used explosives and made a _bomb_. There aren't many Witches or Wizards that know that kind of science."

"So they're pretty much Wizard terrorists," Harry concluded. "What I don't get is why they'd kill off Borgin. Sure, he was creepy, but he wasn't exactly flying a "I support Death Eaters" banner, either."

Hermione paused. "Maybe he knew something," she offered.

"You think?"

"It's possible. He did have ties to both Dark objects and a lot of You-Know-Who supporters. Maybe he knew more than someone wanted him to."

_BANG BANG_.

"What are you doing, boy?" Uncle Vernon roared outside his door.

Harry swore into the phone and Hermione exclaimed her surprise on the other end.

"What's wrong?!" she cried. "Harry?"

"Nothing, it's just a telemarketer!" Harry yelled back. "Listen, I've got to go," he whispered into the phone. "I'll talk to you later, alright?"

"But—"

Harry slammed the phone back onto the receiver just as the bedroom door flew open to reveal his uncle glaring suspiciously at him. "A telemarketer?" he huffed angrily. "You expect me to believe you've been talking to a telemarketer for the past ten minutes?"

Harry nodded silently. He assumed his uncle would yell at him some more, but instead his massive figure turned and stalked down the hallway, making the house shake slightly. Harry exhaled slowly and flopped down on his bed and closed his eyes, eventually falling asleep to the sound of a neighbor's dog barking down the street and the rustling of Hedwig's wings.

* * *

Jessie Diggory lay on her back with her head hanging off the end of her bed. A pen was in her left hand, her journal in her right, and her tight scrawl, made messier by her attempts to write upside down, filled the page.

_July 30, 1995_

_For the first time I think I hate the summer. Mom wanted me to stay in Bordeaux for the rest of the summer, but I couldn't just leave Dad all alone here. He's not exactly the kind of guy who can get along without his family—Mom can, but Dad's—_

She tried to think of a word that could have described her father's current condition based on his actions the last two weeks. _Heartbroken?_ _No_. For a week after the funeral he didn't leave the house; he took a leave of absence from work which, although common, allowed for his constant consumption of firewhiskey, which was very out of character for him.

_In denial._

_Ever since the Tournament Mom's been a wreck. She's taken down all the Wizarding pictures of Cedric, like she's trying to make us seem like a "normal" family. All she does is work, and when she's not working, she's crying. I'm not allowed to even mention magic anymore._

Jessie gazed around her bedroom. Her father had always kept her room full of things to do with magic: her desk was overflowing with quills and inkwells, various shiny gadgets that whirred and buzzed, and a stack of parchment rolls that was held in place between two stacks of books. However, upon her latest arrival she had unloaded almost all of her Muggle things from her mother's home, and now her bedroom had a strange fusion of magic and ordinary teenage life. Her eyes wandered over to her bulletin board, which was framed with a large green and silver banner. Wizarding photos of her and her friends laughing and joking with each other were mixed in with Muggle pictures her mother had taken of her and her brother over the years.

A knock sounded at the door, snapping her out of her thoughts.

"Kiddo? Dinner's almost ready."

"Alright," Jessie said, making a half-hearted attempt to sound cheerful.

As her father made his way back downstairs Jessie continued to write: _She acts like he never even existed... I guess it's easier when you've got enough work to bury yourself in._

She closed the book and placed it on her nightstand, tossing the pen next to it. As she opened her bedroom door and padded lightly down the stairs the smell of something burnt reluctantly led her into the kitchen. Amos Diggory was not a man known for his culinary skills, and for good reason. Apparently he had tried to roast a chicken the Muggle way but hadn't been very successful. A pot full of mushy greenish-brown beans was on the stove, and a plate of toast was in the middle of the table.

Jessie eyed the food speculatively and sat down. "Toast?" she asked.

Her father took up the seat across the small table. "There weren't any rolls," he admitted. "And making them by scratch is something far beyond my capabilities."

"Right..." Jessie watched as her father stabbed the turkey, which was apparently still frozen beneath the layers of charred skin. "Why the Muggle dinner?" she attempted again.

Mr. Diggory sighed. "I figured I'd try something different. Your mother usually cooked a Muggle dinner, I assume?"

Jessie snorted. "No." She picked up her knife and cut a thin, blackened slice of chicken off the end. "We had the housekeeper cook for us." She popped it into her mouth and made a face. Until now she had never imagined what burnt ice could taste like. "Let's not try different again for a while," she advised, spitting the chicken into her napkin.

"A housekeeper?" Her father stared at her in disbelief.

"Yeah. Mom was—"

"Too busy to be bothered with taking care of her only daughter?" Amos supplied flatly.

Jessie sat back and blinked. "She was always working on something. And I can take care of myself."

Her father picked up the turkey by the handle of the knife still embedded in it and tossed it into the sink with a loud _thud_. "Kiddo, I know you pride yourself on being self-reliant and such, but she has no excuse to not take care of you while you're home. I work too, but at least I'm putting forth the effort."

"And I appreciate that—"

"You're away for ten months. It's the least she could do—"

"_Stop it_," Jessie chided. "I don't want to hear about it, okay?" She got up and dropped her plate into the sink, even though it was perfectly clean.

A sudden rap at the window over the sink made them both look up. An owl carrying _The Daily Prophet_ in its beak was perched on the sill, watching them impatiently. Jessie grabbed a Knut from the jar beside the sink and dropped it into the pouch tied to the owl's leg. It promptly dropped the paper on top of the blackened turkey and took off into the evening air.

Jessie picked the paper up gingerly, shaking pieces of chicken skin from it, and tossed it to her father. She then set to work on the week-old dishes in the sink, since she couldn't use magic outside of school to clean them. She didn't spend much time with her father aside from summer and winter holiday, but she imagined he used magic just plenty when she wasn't around—the man clearly didn't know how to do basic housework.

"Oh look, Harry's died again," he said after a minute.

"Are you kidding?"

"Third time this summer." He peered at her from over the top of his paper. "You ever talk to him while you're at school?"

Jessie scoffed. "He doesn't associate with Slytherins," she mocked. "It'd ruin his _image_."

"I would think it'd ruin anyone's image."

"Dad!"

Her father folded the paper hastily and threw it on the table. "I'm sorry," he said in exasperation. "But I don't understand how any child of mine can end up in _that_ House. They're nothing but rotten, evil—"

"Friends of mine!" Jessie snapped. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't meet your expectations by getting into Gryffindor or Hufflepuff like dear saintly brother Cedric, but—"

"This isn't about your brother!" her father argued. "This is about you. You think I haven't seen the way you strut around with your nose in the air when you come home for the summer? With all the time you spend with them it's no wonder—"

"Excuse me, I do not _strut_," Jessie shot back. "And if anything, I'm made more of a person by them, rather than you and Mom. You two can't quit arguing for two seconds to be part of your kids' lives!"

"That's not true!"

Jessie smirked at him. "Really? Why didn't you go to my last three piano recitals?"

"I—because—" her father blustered.

"_Because Mom was there_," Jessie supplied. "If you want to hate her, go right ahead. But don't put me in the middle of it. I didn't ask for the divorce." She turned the faucet on and grabbed the liquid soap from the counter to start in on the dishes. "And stop blaming me for the House I'm in. I can't help it."

Her father gathered up the paper and stood up. He tucked the paper under his arm, pushed his chair in, and muttered, "it just doesn't fit. You're a good kid." With that he left the room; several seconds later, Jessie heard the door to his study slam shut.

"How do you know?" she mumbled, roughly scrubbing the plate.

Once she was done with the dishes she quietly made her way upstairs to her room. From her father's study she could hear eighties punk rock blasting from his stereo. Sometimes she wondered if he ever outgrew his younger years. She sat down at her desk and took out a quill and a scrap of parchment.

_Pansy,_

_Burnham moorings, 11 pm  
Be careful. They're watching you._

_-J_

She stuffed the paper into an envelope and sealed it quickly. Inside a large cage on top of her dresser was a sleeping hawk owl. As she approached it the bird opened one eye and hooted in a low tone as if in warning.

"Don't start," Jessie said moodily. She opened the cage and held out her arm. The owl just looked at her arm and then at her, but made no attempt to move from its perch.

"Meph, come on!"

The bird ruffled his feathers and stepped onto her wrist reluctantly. Jessie winced as he dug his talons into her arm much more than was necessary. She walked over to the window and held out the letter.

"Take this to Pansy. It's _important_," she emphasized.

The owl clamped the envelope tightly in his beak and, with one last rueful look at Jessie, took off out the open window. Jessie leaned against the sill and watched him soar over the trees until he was a black speck against the inky sky.

She checked her watch. 6:47. She had about an hour before her father went to bed. After that she could sneak out and take the car, and to get to Burnham-on-Sea by eleven she'd have to leave by nine-thirty. She still had a bit of Muggle money stored away in a box in her dresser; she could use that for gas.

She just hoped Pansy would get the letter in time.


	3. Black and White

**CHAPTER II  
Black and White**

_Whoever said the world isn't black and white is an idiot. Of course it is. Good is good, evil is evil, and that's that. There shouldn't be any interpretation over whether or not people are doing things for the right reasons or the wrong ones. If somebody kills someone else, that's a bad thing. It's not like he can turn around and say, "well I was doing it for a good reason." No. You don't kill people. That's just the way it goes. Good people do good things, like helping little old ladies across the street, and being there for others. Bad people... well, they basically do whatever those snot-nosed Slytherins do. That's what._

Ginny Weasley brushed her long auburn hair in the mirror above her dresser. In the background, the radio she had stolen from her brother's room played some lilting, wispy romantic tune that she didn't really feel all that inclined to listen to. It wasn't the type of music she listened to anyway. Pig zoomed around the room behind her, occasionally bouncing off a wall or piece of furniture; he'd falter for a minute and then recover as if nothing happened in the first place.

_Thud_.

Ginny looked upward at the ceiling and shook her head as the sound of muffled yelling drifted through the creaky floorboards. Fred and George were fighting again, no doubt over the money Harry had given them at the TriWizard Tournament last month. They'd been talking nonstop about opening their own shop in Hogsmeade for a while now, and now that they actually had the financial means to do it, it was causing their parents quite a bit of stress. Before, their mother would have just laughed it off, having the idea they'd never have the financial stability to pull it off; now, however, every time they mentioned Weasley Wizard Wheezes she took on a panicked look and yelled at them.

"_ARTHUR!_"

Ginny stared at her own reflection, eyes wide and hairbrush frozen mid-stroke in her hair, at the sound of her mother's voice. That wasn't Molly Weasley's angry shout, or even her alarmed shout—that was her all-out panic attack shout. She ran to the window and saw her father drop the Muggle tools he had been holding and run inside. Thuds and thumps on the stairs indicated that the boys had heard her as well and were on their way downstairs. Ginny threw her door open and narrowly avoided colliding with Ron, Fred, and George as they took the stairs two at a time, nearly falling over one another to get downstairs. They all burst into the living room to find their mother shaking and being comforted by their father; at her feet was a copy of _The Daily Prophet_.

"What's going on?" Ginny asked as she hurried through the door behind the boys.

Arthur Weasley clicked his tongue and shook his head. "The Prophet reporters again," he said. "They're claiming Harry's died again. This time they've supposedly got eyewitness accounts."

"Oh, that's a load of shit," Fred scoffed.

"WATCH YOUR LANGUAGE!" his mother bellowed. She turned to her Mr. Weasley, still a bit shaken. "Do you think we should go get him?" she asked in a small voice.

Mr. Weasley frowned. "You don't suppose the Dudseys—"

"Dursleys, Arthur."

"Yes—you don't suppose they're taking care of him?"

Even Ginny scoffed at this. She knew perfectly well that those horrid relatives of his wouldn't take care of Harry if his life depended on it—which these days it more or less did. Each year she saw him he looked more and more underfed; apparently food wasn't a priority in the Dursley household. She wished for once Harry would come straight home with them after school so she—_they_—could take care of him.

"What's with the _Prophet_, anyway?" Ron asked. "It's been coming later and later since we came home."

"Oh, I suppose with all the new subscribers production's getting backed up a bit," Mr. Weasley. "Everyone wants to hear about whether the rumors are true..."

Mrs. Weasley _tsk_ed under her breath. "Of course they're true!" she said vehemently. As she usually did when she was mad, she began to tidy up the room by hand, not even bothering to pick up her wand from where it lay on the couch. She picked up a copy of _Quidditch Monthly_ and waved it about. "Why on earth would he make up something like that?"

George handed her the shirt on the back of the couch she was beckoning for. "Well, you see, Harry's a whiny brat who can and will do anything to get in the limelight." He grinned devilishly at his mother's disapproving look. "Haven't you been reading the _Prophet_, Mum?"

Mrs. Weasley ignored him and continued about her task, tidying and straightening until everything was in its place—which, ironically, wound up looking as if nothing had changed. The Weasley children went back upstairs, deciding it would be safest not to bother her. Halfway up the staircase and out of view of their parents, the boys stopped and peeked downstairs to make sure no one was listening.

"You know what we've got to do, don't you?" Fred asked.

"We've got to get Harry?" Ron guessed in a hushed whisper.

"No no! We're going into Borgin's shop."

Ron stared at him as if he were insane. "You can't be serious!" he hissed. "There've got to be loads of protective charms on the place. Besides, it's Knockturn Alley—with all the Voldemort supporters coming out of the woodwork there'll be loads of Dark Wizards all about!"

George scoffed at him. "This, coming from the boy who's helped Harry Potter fight He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" he snickered. "It's okay Ron. If you're too scared to come with the big boys we'll understand." Beside him Fred grinned.

A quiet ahem came from the doorway above them on the stairs.

"If you're going, I'm coming too," Ginny said quietly. She leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms stubbornly, sticking her chin out.

"No, you're not," Ron said. "You're too young."

"You're only a year older than I am!" Ginny huffed. "Besides, if you don't let me I'll just tell Mum."

The boys looked at each other and exchanged eye rolls and grumbles. "Fine," Fred muttered. "Be ready at five-thirty tomorrow morning."

Ginny frowned. "That early?"

Fred grinned up at her. "Mum'll be up at six. We've got to get to the Portkey while it's still dark."

Ginny nodded seriously and turned to close her bedroom door. "Gin!" George whispered loudly. She turned back to him expectantly.

"Don't be such a prat."

* * *

_I've been thinking a lot lately about good versus evil. Why should it be as simple as black and white? Is a man wrong if he truly believes what he is fighting for is right? My father once defined evil as "morally objectionable behavior"; if that's the case then I'm evil for cheating on that Charms test two years ago. But what if someone's personal morals include killing and torture—are they then committing an act of evil for acting against those morals? All this good and evil, right and wrong nonsense is starting to get blurred with everything that's going on. And what about us Slytherins? Everyone says there isn't a Dark Wizard who wasn't in Slytherin while they were in school. Isn't that just a self-fulfilling prophecy? "Well they fit the bill so they must be evil." That line of thinking only leads to this question: are people born evil and people learn to hate them, or do they turn evil __because__ people hate them already?_

Pansy Parkinson shivered in the cool breeze and wrapped her arms around her torso, pulling her coat tighter around her. Her chin-length black hair danced around her face, and as she reached up to hold it in place she caught sight of the time on her watch. Eleven ten. She huffed impatiently. Where the bloody hell was she?

She glanced around her, more than aware of the fact that she couldn't see very far in any direction. Beyond the long stretch of sand and grass before her, she could just barely see the black waters of the channel rippling, cold and uninviting. Clouds had rolled in sometime during the evening, obscuring the moon and making the darkness heavy, almost stifling. The wind whistled across the moors, causing the waist-high grass to sway wildly; for a moment Pansy thought she had heard a voice and she whipped her head around frantically, trying to see through the darkness. The expanse of the area gave her the uneasy feeling that she may not be alone.

_She gets fifteen more minutes and then I'm __out__ of here_, she thought. _This place is creepy_.

Wading through the grass, she made her way over to a large rock very near where the grass meets the sand. After brushing the sand off it so as not to get her new skirt dirty, she sat down carefully and looked about once more. She hated this feeling, being hyperaware of everything around her. She wasn't normally afraid of the dark or open places, but this was Muggle country, after all, and one never knew what strange things went on around here.

She felt something hit her back and screamed. Scrambling down off the rock, she ducked behind it and whipped out her wand.

"Who's there?" she said, unable to hide the hysteric tone to her voice.

In the darkness, someone laughed.

"You are _such_ a wimp."

"Jess?! You bit—"

"Calm down, you're perfectly fine," Jessie said flatly.

A bluish-white light suddenly shone right in her eyes and she squinted, holding her hand in front of her.

"I most certainly am _not_ fine!" Pansy cried. "You scared the life out of me!" She stood up straight and stuffed her wand back into her coat pocket. "And get that thing out of my face, will you? I thought we couldn't use magic outside school."

"We can't."

Jessie shone the light at the ground and Pansy saw that it wasn't coming from her wand. Rather, it was coming from a short, thick, and oddly shaped baton.

"What's that then?" she asked irritably. She didn't like being scared, and she _knew_ Jessie was aware of that fact.

"A flashlight," Jessie answered simply. She clicked the device in question off and climbed onto the rock to sit down.

Pansy sat down beside her and drew her knees up to her chest. "You mean a _Muggle_ contraption," she countered, eyeing the thing with dislike.

Jessie rolled her eyes. Pansy hated anything to do with Muggles, but Jessie had a feeling it was because she knew nothing about them. "Well what would you have me do, then? Stumble around in the dark like you probably did?"

Pansy quickly covered her knee with her hand to hide the swollen bruise she had sustained after tripping over a rock twenty minutes ago. "Whatever," she said sullenly. She shivered again. "Why couldn't you just owl me? It's freezing out here."

"I don't trust the post right now. For all I know someone could have followed us here after intercepting your letter."

Pansy rolled her eyes. She could be so paranoid sometimes, but she supposed it was one of those side effects of being a Ministry official's daughter. "So what's this list, and why am I on it?"

"The 'Dark and Dangerous' list, as my dad likes to call it," Jessie explained. "It's a Ministry record of all known Dark Witches and Wizards. I heard him talking about you and Daphne being the newest members as of last week."

"Daphne?" Pansy echoed. "You've got to be kidding me. She can barely hold her wand straight, let alone kill someone if she wanted to."

"Still—_you're_ on the list, Panda."

Pansy scowled at the nickname. She hated it and Jessie knew it. A pale complexion and dark under-eye circles in her first year at Hogwarts had earned her the nickname, and even after she had found a magic potion to cure the cosmetic flaw, the name had stuck. She had bullied Jessie into never calling her by it in public, but it was a rare moment when she wasn't referred to as "Panda" when they were alone.

"So what am I supposed to do?"

Jessie shrugged. "Stay low, don't do anything overly obvious." She ran a hand through her long brown hair to keep it in place, suddenly wishing she had put it up before she left the house. "Try to stay away from anyone you know is a Death Eater."

Pansy sighed loudly. "But how am I supposed to do _that?_" she whined. "I can't be away from my Draco all summer." She pouted as she said this and Jessie shook her head.

"Look. Unless you want to get yourself in deeper, just stay away from anyone who could get you into trouble."

Pansy frowned for a moment, as if she were deep in thought. "Well, who else is on the list?" she asked. "Are you? Is Draco? What about Aurelia?"

Jessie scoffed. "Right, like _I'd_ ever end up on there. My father would never suspect his little girl of anything." In fact, she was not positive about this statement. Amos Diggory was a protective father, but he wasn't stupid. Ever since June the fact that Jessie was a Slytherin agitated him more than usual, and it was very possible he was keeping a closer eye on her, for whatever reason.

"Well what about Draco?" Pansy pressed. "I don't think I'd survive the whole summer without him..."

"You survived the first ten years of your life without him," Jessie retorted. "You'll be fine. And yes, he's on the list too. Of course he is, given who his parents are."

Pansy drew herself up a little. "His parents are respectable elitist—"

"_Death Eaters_, Panda. Don't ever forget that."

"Don't call me Panda!"

They continued to talk about their summers and what Jessie had discovered about the Ministry's Death Eater list, interspersed with bickering every time Jessie called Pansy by her nickname. About an hour later, Jessie glanced down at her watch. Twelve forty-four. She cursed to herself. Her father had a bad habit of waking up in the wee hours of the morning, and if she wanted to be back before he noticed her gone, she'd have to leave soon. She hopped down off the rock and brushed off her jeans. "I've got to get going," she announced. "My dad'll have a fit if he notices the car gone. How did you get here, anyway?" she added, looking around.

"Flew. My broom's somewhere over there," she shrugged, waving her hand off to her right. She climbed down and quickly inspected her skirt in the dim and cloud-obscured moonlight. "Are you going to Diagon Alley soon?"

"I'll be getting my books sometime soon, I suppose. I'll probably wait til the last week like usual." Jessie clicked on her flashlight as Pansy started to walk away. "Pansy?"

Pansy turned back to her.

"If you hear anything... tell me, won't you?"

"Sure. Why are you so worried, anyway?" Pansy frowned.

"I just... want to look out for us, that's all."

Pansy seemed to accept this. She gave a little wave and started the trek back to where her broom lay tucked among the grass along the bank, never giving anything her friend had said a second thought.

* * *

Note: I know, the ending was sort of lame. Things start to pick up and fall into place in the next chapter, though. As for the 1st POV blurbs, they do serve a purpose! I'd love to hear from you readers, 'cause I know you're reading--Hit count's a fun thing ;)


	4. Curiosity Kills Other Things, Too

**CHAPTER III  
Curiosity Kills Other Things, Too**

"Will you hurry up?"

"Move!"

"Ron, get your bony arse out of the way—"

"Shhh!"

"I still don't see why we can't just leave her here; she's just going to get in the way."

"She said she'll rat us out if we don't—she'll do it, too."

The three Weasley boys tried their best to tiptoe down the stairs at The Burrow, avoiding creaky floorboards and speaking quietly so as not to wake their parents. They all crammed themselves on the small landing just outside Ginny's room and Fred pressed his ear to the door carefully. He knocked softly.

"Gin?"

The door flew open immediately. Fred wheeled backward and knocked into Ron, who had to grab hold of the rickety banister to keep from slipping off the landing and tumbling down the stairs. Catlike, Ginny stepped out and closed the door silently behind her.

"I'm _not_ going to get in the way," she hissed insistently. "And if you idiots keep making this much of a ruckus you'll wake Mum and Dad."

Ron grumbled a response and the four of them very quietly made their way downstairs and out the back door into the yard. The sun hadn't begun to rise yet and the sky was a cloudy, inky color; the Weasley children looked like shadows as they fled across the weedy lawn and into the trees on the far edge of the property. Occasionally someone would shoot a furtive glance over their shoulder to make sure no lights had come on in the house. Once they reached the brush and bracken, George dropped to his knees and began feeling around at the base of a large, knotty hickory tree.

"What are you doing?" Ginny asked, watching her brother as if he were an idiot.

"Portkey," George mumbled, digging through the grass. "Aha!" He sat back on his heels and grinned triumphantly. "Found it." He parted the grass to reveal a tiny brown mushroom tucked between the bases of two roots. It was hardly two inches tall, and it was a wonder he found it in the first place.

"We're not seriously using a Portkey?" Ginny said disapprovingly. "D'you have any idea how much trouble we could get in for using an unauthorized one? We could get fined, Dad could get in trouble at work—!"

"Right, right, and we'll all end up in Azkaban or be exiled from the Wizarding world. We get it."

"Relax," Fred chimed in. "Dad's had this one authorized for years now. I don't think he thinks we know about it, now I think about it," he frowned thoughtfully. "What do you think, George?"

"I think you think you're cleverer than everyone else thinks," George snorted.

"I think you're both idiots," Ginny said with a roll of her eyes. "Can we get on with it? It's chilly out here."

"Yeah yeah, don't get your panties in a bunch," George muttered. "Alright everyone, gather round." His siblings complied silently, aside from a disbelieving huff from his sister. "Fingers on in three... two... one."

Simultaneously they all touched the tiny mushroom and instantly felt a jolt behind their stomachs. Ron clapped a hand over his mouth, shutting his eyes tight to block out the scene before him as his surroundings shifted back and forth in a dizzying fashion.

"Where does this take us, anyway?" Ginny asked as her vision started to swirl.

Fred shrugged. "Dunno. Somewhere in Diagon Alley, we hope."

"You _hope?!_"

Fred's reply was lost in the rushing roar in their ears as the trees began to spin violently. Ginny too squeezed her eyes shut and after a moment heard a cheerful _pop!_ She cautiously opened one eye and looked around. Books upon books were stacked high on tables, chairs, and overflowing from shelves. Piles of parchment and displays of ink wells sat near the window, and the smell of ink and dust caught their noses. Fred was right: they had been transported to Diagon Alley, and by the looks of it, they were in Flourish and Blotts.

"Well, that was lucky, wasn't it?" Fred murmured cheerily.

Ginny shot him a glare that could have frozen most of England over and punched his arm roughly. In turn he pinched her side and danced away from her before she could retaliate. They exited the shop as quietly as they could and made their way through the cobblestoned street toward Knockturn Alley, trying to look the part of inconspicuous early-morning shoppers. They looked about carefully before slipping down the alleyway, immediately feeling the change in the air. The sun, which had just begun to rise, didn't seem to reach this far. The air in Diagon Alley had been crisp, a bit warm, and fresh; here, however, it was cold and clammy, and had an odor of must about it. Everything felt heavy and stagnant, as if people never came this way.

"Sheesh, no wonder Mum never let us come down here," Ron breathed. "You can _feel_ the... evil, I suppose."

George shook his head. "Nah, this isn't evil," he said. "This is just rotten, putrid personality. I'd be willing to bet every customer who comes here was once a Slytherin." He glanced behind him; for some reason he felt like someone was watching him, even though there was no one in the street and no shops were open.

"Come on, let's keep moving," Ron urged. "This place creeps me out."

George nudged Fred with a grin. "See, told you he'd be scared."

"I'm not scared!" Ron insisted. "Just... unnerved."

"Scared. S'okay Ronnie, you can admit it," Fred taunted.

Ron grabbed him and put him in a headlock, grinding his knuckles into his brother's skull.

"Arrgh—get off me!" Fred growled, trying to throw Ron off of him.

"Would you two knock it off?" Ginny hissed. "Someone's going to hear us!" She and George pulled the two apart and dragged them down the alley, wands out just in case, looking for Borgin's shop.

It didn't take them long to find it. It was the only shop that looked as though it had been the victim of some sort of natural disaster. The large windows had been shattered and shards of glass lay everywhere, both inside the shop and out. Black and sooty scorch marks marred the once green brick façade of the building and even blemished the faces of the shops on either side. The sign over the door that should have read '_Borgin and Burkes, Purveyors of Fine Magical Artifacts_' had been blown off its hinges and now lay on the other side of the alley. George stepped forward cautiously and tapped the doorframe with his wand to check for jinxes or protection spells. When nothing happened, he shrugged and muttered "_alohomora_." The door swung open with a creak and the four of them stepped in, cautiously peeking around and gripping their wands tightly.

The exterior of the building didn't begin to prepare them for what was inside. The wooden counter near the window was completely blown apart; the wall behind the counter, in addition to being scorched, was spattered with a good amount of blood and human remains. Ginny covered her mouth with a gasp and looked away; she wasn't necessarily squeamish, but she didn't want to see the inner parts of a person, either.

"Jeez," Fred breathed. "And here I was, thinking Death Eaters wanted to do a clean job of killing someone."

"Why would they _do_ something like that?" Ginny whispered, horrified. She still couldn't bring herself to look at the sight.

"A warning, maybe?" Ron guessed.

"They were making a point," George said solemnly. "The Killing Curse is clean... dignified, almost. They wanted people to see what they can do."

They stood there, staring at the gruesome destruction before them, until they heard a shout from the back of the shop.

"Check out some of this stuff!" Ginny called. The boys turned to see her holding up a shriveled hand, clenched in a claw-like gesture.

"Ginny, put that down! You don't know what it can do!"

Nonplussed, Ginny placed the mummified hand back on its pedestal and continued to explore the back of the shop, where many of the artifacts had been moved to keep them out of the way. She had noticed that there didn't seem to be a single item that had been damaged or destroyed in the attack on the shop; many of them were dusty or covered in soot from the blast, but in essentiality everything was intact.

Ron made his way over to where his sister stood, now examining a ring with a ruby the size of his thumbnail. He pulled up behind her and read the tag on the ring's display: "Ring of Vulpecula," he recited, "circa four hundreds... passed down through the Malfoy family."

"Well, that's reason enough not to touch it, isn't it?" George quipped. "Whoever wears it automatically gets a stick up their butt and a bad case of the 'we're-better-than you's." He bent down and poked at a small wrought-iron cage. "The Soul-Keeper," he read from its display card. "Now that's just off."

"Hey, I wonder what's wrong with this?" Fred called, waving around a small red candle. "What evil can somebody do with a hunk of wax?"

Ginny frowned. "What's the card say?"

"There isn't one."

Fred, still holding the candle, hopped over a long, narrow bench on display and joined his siblings. Ginny reached out to touch a glittering diamond necklace with an awestruck "ooh!" and Ron slapped her hand away.

"Honestly, what do people _do_ with these things?" Ron asked, pulling Ginny away from the necklace again; she kept trying to touch it when she thought no one was looking. "Who in the world needs a soul cage?"

Fred felt the candle sliding around in his hand and glanced down at it, wondering for a second if it was alive. Instead he saw red trails of thick liquid oozing from between his fingers, running down the back of his hand. "Oh, that's disgusting!" he cried. "It's—ugh—it's BLOOD!" He threw the candle on a nearby table as if it had burned him and wiped his stained hands on his trousers, his face twisted in revulsion.

"Eww," George moaned. "Whose blood _is_ it?"

"I don't even want to know," Fred replied, scrubbing his hand with a nearby scarf, which immediately wrapped around his wrist and tried to cut off his blood flow. He yelled and yanked it off him, throwing it to the floor where it lay innocently in the dusty sunlight.

"Let's get out of here," Ron muttered. "I've had enough of the Dark Arts for one morning—oh, for the love of Merlin, Gin!" He ripped the diamond necklace out of Ginny's hands and tossed it in the corner of the room with a clatter.

Ginny blinked several times and shook her head, staring up at Ron. "What the hell's the matter with that thing?" she asked, somewhat hysterically. "I swear it was talking to me in my head—or something, right? Or did you guys hear it too...?"

George stared at her with raised eyebrows. "Right, we're leaving," he announced, grabbing her hand. He marched her toward the door and out into the shadowy alleyway. Ron followed with Fred close behind, but not before he reached back and pocketed the strange red candle.

* * *

Three weeks later the Weasley family plus Harry was gathered outside Florean Fortescue's, comparing textbooks and conversing happily about the upcoming school term. Fred and George had gone to get Harry the night after the newspaper report after receiving a letter with Dumbledore's consent about bringing him to the Burrow. The Dursleys had been frightened out of their wits to see two boys in (what looked like to them) tattered blue bathrobes appear in the middle of their living room during dinner, but they were happy enough to relinquish Harry if it meant not having to see him for another ten months after that.

"Checkmate."

"You bastard."

Ron and George were currently engaged in a heated battle of Wizard chess. They had had grand plans to go to Zonko's for "supplies," but Fred had been acting increasingly lethargic and withdrawn over the past few weeks, and had said he didn't feel up to going. Even as they sat in the brilliant summer sunshine he rested his head on his arms and shielded his eyes in the crook of his elbow, looking pallid and gaunt as if he'd been ill.

"So Harry, have you given any thought to what you'd like to do after school?" Arthur asked curiously. "This year you get to start taking advanced classes in the fields you prefer, correct?"

Harry nodded, fighting to swallow a large bite of his ice cream. "Auror" was all he was able to mumble, dribbling a bit of ice cream down his chin.

Ginny snorted and handed him a napkin. "Suave," she said sarcastically.

Harry just responded by shoving the tip of his ice cream cone against her cheek.

"You know," Arthur continued loudly over Ginny's huff of mock horror, "I wonder how far a good word from Kingsley would get you in the Auror's department."

Harry paused mid-bicker with Ginny, who was trying to smash her ice cream in his hair, and looked at Arthur interestedly. "You'd do that for me?" he asked.

Arthur nodded proudly. "I don't see why not," he said. "We're both members of the—well, you know... the _Order_," he said quietly so no one nearby would hear, "and I really think he could help you get started before you graduate."

Harry was both honored and humbled, especially since the entire family was watching for his reaction. "Wow, uh, I really appreciate it, Mr. Weasley," he stumbled, turning red. "Thanks."

"Not a problem, Harry, not a problem," Arthur replied.

Suddenly a very large stack of books came crashing down on the table and a large bunch of bushy brown hair collapsed on top of it.

"Merlin's beard, Hermione!" George exclaimed.

Harry stared at the stack of books in amazement. In all he counted ten, but they were only allowed to take seven classes. And since Hermione had supposedly given her Time Turner back to Dumbledore at the end of their third year, he wasn't quite sure how she was going to manage that.

"You can only take seven classes, you know," Ron said, voicing Harry's thoughts.

"Oh, I'm well aware," Hermione said rather breathlessly. "These are for classes," she gestured to the seven textbooks on the bottom, "and these are just supplemental readings." The "supplemental readings" in question were thinner than the others, but only slightly so. "I think I'm going to need a bigger backpack though," she speculated lightly. Ron just stared at her in horror; she sounded _happy_ about that fact.

"Have you two gotten your books yet?" she asked, eyeing Harry and Ron expectantly.

"No," they replied together.

Hermione looked affronted. "Well why not?" she asked. "Do you have any idea how long the line is in there?"

"Well, all the more reason not to go in," Ron said brightly. At Hermione's disapproving look he sighed. "It's fine, Hermione. We've got a few more days before we go back."

Hermione took on an air of smugness and let a small smile cross her face. "Which wouldn't be a problem if they weren't running short on Defense Against the Dark Arts books," she informed.

"What do you mean?"

Rearranging her books meticulously and lovingly, Hermione shrugged. "There was a problem with the order. Apparently instead of ordering forty-two for the fifth years they only ordered twenty-four."

She had barely finished her sentence before Harry and Ron were out of their seats and hurrying across the street toward Flourish and Blotts, arguing over who would get to keep it if they could only find one.

"Did they mention being short on any other years?" Ginny asked Hermione concernedly, her eyes darting over to the bookshop. She couldn't see much through the window and open doorway and was wondering if it would be best to go in there and get it over with.

"Actually, they're not short at all," Hermione said smartly. "But it got them in there rather quickly, didn't it?" She flashed Ginny a clever smile before turning her attention back to her books.

Once inside Flourish and Blotts, Harry and Ron made a mad dash for the Defense Against the Dark Arts section only to find that, although the line was very long indeed, there was no such shortage of fifth-year books.

"Harry, I believe we've been tricked," Ron said flatly as he stared at the twenty some-odd copies of _Defensive Magical Theory_. "I'm going to hide one of her books tonight, I think. Seems like an appropriate punishment."

Harry grabbed two copies from the shelf and handed one to Ron. "She'll kill you when she finds out, you realize," he pointed out.

"It'll be worth it."

* * *

Several aisles over, Jessie was picking out the last of her books. "Astronomy..." She scanned over the row of books in search of the one she needed. _Advancements in the Wizarding World, Ancient Aristocracy, Arithmancy I've already got..._ She finally spotted it at the end of the row, almost hidden between the monstrously large books on either side. She stood on her toes to reach for the book, carefully cradling her other textbooks in the opposite arm. Just when she was about to grab it another hand shot out from behind her and snatched it from her reach.

"Hey!"

Jessie spun to see who the book snatcher was; even though he was already halfway down the aisle on his way to the register, Jessie would have recognized that blonde head anywhere. She hurried to catch him, trying to avoid crashing into other people in the aisle.

"Malfoy!" she called exasperatedly. If there was anyone in the world who could drive her up the wall, it was bloody Draco Malfoy. Just the sight of that arrogant smirk made her want to beat him with something—_anything_.

His pace slowed a bit and Jessie, still running at full speed, took the opportunity to seize the book from his hand once she caught up to him.

"Hey, that's mine!" he said hotly, spinning to face her. "Give it back."

_He's such a prat. Everything's his, isn't it?_

"I had it first," Jessie scoffed. She tucked it under her other books and raised her eyebrows coolly. "You're perfectly capable of waiting until the next shipment comes in."

Draco sneered. "And so aren't you!"

They both paused to size the other one up. He had gotten taller over the summer, Jessie decided. For some strange reason she always enjoyed analyzing Malfoy. He wasn't necessarily _bad_ looking, but that constant sneer he kept on his face certainly didn't improve anything. His white-blonde hair was, as always, perfectly smoothed back, and the sleeves of his oxford were neatly and identically rolled up to his elbows. Everything about him practically screamed 'money.' And compared to Jessie's t-shirt, worn jeans, and scuffed trainers, his perfected appearance made them seem as though they were from completely different worlds.

_Everyone knows he's bloody richer than the Muggle Prime Minister_, she thought. _What's the point in showing it off all the time?_

"Actually," he drawled, "I believe I had the book in _my_ possession first. So why don't you go skip on out back and find another one?"

Jessie narrowed her eyes at him. "Sod off, you prat," she said. "Why don't _you_ go find another book? After all, I've got this one, don't I?" she mocked, wiggling the book at him.

Without waiting for a reply she stalked past him and made her way over to the line waiting to check out. There were two people in front of her: one she recognized as Neville Longbottom, the dim-witted Gryffindor boy who always got picked on. He looked like he was going to lose his hold on a chin-high stack of books that he was balancing with one hand; the other was clamped tightly around a squirming toad. The other person in line was a tall Ravenclaw girl with the air of aristocracy who was apparently demanding a new schoolbook versus a "dirty used one." Jessie sighed, knowing it would be a while before she got out of the shop and away from Malfoy.

"You know, you could just end this whole problem by giving me the book. We'll call it even and I'll rid myself of your _lovely_ company," he said from behind her.

_Rid__ himself? What a bloody joke._

Jessie turned toward him and fought the urge to beat him with the very book he was trying to take from her. She was used to his snobbish bravado—it was all anyone ever saw of him. However, over the course of the summer she had forgotten how annoying it was.

"Trevor, knock it off!" the boy in front of her cried. In his efforts to control his grip on the toad he dropped his books, which went tumbling to the floor.

Malfoy snorted. "Brilliant, Longbottom. Looks like you could use a few extra arms. I could arrange that—_aargh!_"

Jessie, who had just about had enough of Draco Malfoy for one day, kicked him swiftly in the shin before kneeling to pick up the fallen textbooks. With a dejected sigh Neville bent down beside her.

"Thanks for that," he mumbled.

Jessie gathered up the books nearest her and held them in her palm while cradling her own in her left arm. "You should get a cage for him or something," she added, indicating to Trevor, who was still squirming.

"Oh, no. I meant him," Neville nodded in the direction of Malfoy, who was rubbing his shin with a pained look on his face.

"That was for me."

Neville laughed nervously. Apparently he was scared of Slytherins, Jessie decided. He kept shooting her the same apprehensive look that plainly asked 'why are you helping me?'

"Right. So, um... how's your family? Must be hard with your brother gone." At the look on Jessie's face he turned bright red and began to stammer. "Oh—I'm sorry, that was really a dumb—forget I said anything—I mean, I'm still sorry—"

Jessie blushed. "No, it's—we're—look, do you need me to hold these for you or what, Longbottom?" she asked testily, quickly changing the subject.

"Oh, um... if you could, thanks." Neville awkwardly managed to balance his books against his chest while Trevor croaked loudly in his hand.

Jessie glanced behind her at Malfoy, who was staring at her with an incomprehensible expression on his face.

"What?" she spat.

He quickly looked her up and down, the way a jeweler appraises a customer when they first walk through the door of the shop. He coolly turned away from her and engaged himself in a conversation with some fellow Slytherins behind him in line.

Neville rolled his eyes at Malfoy's back and hefted his books in his arms again. It wasn't lost on Jessie that he refused to look her in the eye; after what he said just a moment ago she didn't blame him.

"Next in line please," the shopkeeper called rather impatiently to Neville.

Neville and slid his books on the counter and Jessie placed the ones she had been carrying on top of those. Neville counted out the change required for his books and passed it to the shopkeeper. "Thanks," he said to the shopkeeper, clumsily gathering up his books and heaving them off the counter. "See you," he mumbled over his shoulder before hurrying away.

"Are you all set, miss?"

Jessie spared one glance at the retreating hopeless boy before she stepped forward to the counter and quickly glanced down at the list of supplies she needed. "Uh, yeah... do you have an order for Diggory ready?"

"Diggory?" The shopkeeper frowned. "Diggory... ah, yes! I have them right here." He turned to the shelf behind him and checked the tags attached to each pile of textbooks. Finally he slid a large stack of thick books from a shelf and placed them on the counter with a heavy thud.

Jessie handed him the correct amount and awkwardly heaved the books off the counter, catching Malfoy watching her from the corner of his eye again. _It's okay_, she thought,_ don't make an effort to help or anything. We wouldn't want to wrinkle your clothes, now, would we?_ She positioned the books against her hip as best she could and slowly made her way out of the busy shop, minding the people around her so as not to knock into anyone.

* * *

Harry poked his head around the edge of the bookshelf curiously. Diggory? He hadn't seen her since the night of the Triwizard Tournament in St. Mungo's. She hadn't said a single word to him, or even looked at him, he remembered. She had looked at anything, everything _except_ him the whole time, sitting in a chair in the corner; even though Mr. Diggory had been insistent upon talking to Harry, Jessie had been off in the corner, comforting her hysterical mother. Even now she paid no attention to him as she gathered her books in her arms. Harry continued to watch her until she disappeared into the crowd of people outside in the street with, for some strange reason, Malfoy hot on her heels.

"What're you lookin' at?" Ron asked, eyeing him strangely.

Harry pulled back behind the bookcase and shook his head. "Nothing."

* * *

Jessie slowly made her way across the street, trying to ignore the numbing pain in her arms from the weight of her books.

_Fine day to forget the bottomless backpack_, she thought ruefully. _Dad bought it for you for a reason_.

She heard quick footsteps behind her and groaned loudly. "What do you _want?_" she said, annoyed.

Draco shrugged. "My book," he said simply.

"Did you even pay for _that_ one?" Jessie asked, quickening her pace a bit.

Draco stared down at the book in his hand. "No, actually. I was so bewitched by you I completely forgot. I mean, you're a _fantastic_ conversationalist and all..."

Jessie clenched her teeth, resisting the urge to pull out her wand and hex him. "You haven't spoken to me for four years," she pointed out, "and I was quite enjoying it. I don't really see why you need to break that habit now."

"Actually, it was three," Draco corrected. "I called you a blood traitor in second year for talking to that Mudblood in Ravenclaw."

"Oh, that's right. How could I forget your shining moment of wittiness and originality?" Jessie snapped. "Piss off, Malfoy."

"Why so hostile?" Draco cooed, falling in step beside her. "Don't you miss me at all?"

Jessie sighed. "Look, I know you have nothing better to do than torment people, but it really does get quite old after a while. And to be perfectly honest, I'd rather gouge my own eyes out than listen to you keep talking. So why don't you bounce along like a good little ferret and go pick on some first years?" She waved her hand at him dismissively. "They're the only ones who are afraid of you."

Draco whipped out his wand and stepped directly in front of her, holding it under her nose. "Say it again and watch what happens," he dared, glaring at her.

Jessie tried to sidestep him, but he blocked her. She rolled her eyes. Was that really supposed to intimidate her? "_What_ is it going to take to get you away from me?" she asked tersely.

Draco smirked and backed away from her a little, lowering his wand. "My book."

"Fine." Jessie shoved the Astronomy book roughly into his stomach. "If it makes you disappear, then by all means." She stepped around him and stalked off, pulling her wand out in case he followed her again.

Draco smirked and hefted the book in his hand as Jessie stormed off. It bothered him a little bit that she didn't take his threats seriously, but at least he knew how to annoy her easily enough. He turned on his heel and strode right by the entrance to Flourish and Blotts. Perhaps he _would_ go find some first years.

* * *

Hermione watched from her and Ginny's table as a girl emerged from the bookshop entrance, followed closely behind by Draco Malfoy. Hermione was too far away to see her closely, but she knew the girl was a Slytherin—she had never spoken to her, but she knew the girl hung around with Pansy Parkinson and therefore wasn't a good person.

"Doesn't he have _anything_ better to do than bother people?" she asked, watching as Malfoy pointed his wand at the girl.

Ginny looked confused. "What?"

Hermione nodded to the street, where the two could faintly be heard—arguing, by the looks of it. "Them," she said. "Malfoy's trying to hex people in his own House now."

"Oh, her?" Ginny's voice was tinged with dislike. "She probably deserves it. The girls in my year say she's friends with that Parkinson girl who follows Malfoy around. Emily told me she heard those two used to date and that's why they hate each other."

Hermione raised her eyebrows as the girl smashed a book into Malfoy's stomach and walked away from him angrily. "Isn't that Cedric Diggory's sister?" she asked quietly.

Ginny shrugged. "Is she? I've never talked to her. All the girls I know who have say she's just as bad as the rest of the Slytherins though."

Hermione watched the girl as she marched past the ice cream shop; probably headed toward Knockturn Alley, she supposed.

"Either way, I'll be staying away from her," Ginny continued.

Soon after Ginny changed the subject to Quidditch, the boys returned from Flourish and Blotts. All thoughts of Slytherins were pushed from Hermione's mind as she buried herself in one of her supplemental readings, which, she wasn't willing to admit, weren't for school at all.


	5. Those Wicked Witches

**CHAPTER IV  
Those Wicked Witches**

The following Friday, every Hogwarts student, with the exception of the first years, was gathered haphazardly in the Entrance Hall and outside on the steps as people reunited and gossiped about their summers. Girls laughed and hugged each other, boys shook each other's hands and joked about various things, and Filch watched over them all from the stone steps with a disgruntled expression etched into his weathered face.

Jessie stepped down from the enchanted carriage she had been forced to share with Draco and Blaise Zabini—at the demand of Pansy—and crossed her arms impatiently, waiting by the door for her friend. She was thoroughly annoyed by this point: once she had spoken a single word about not wanting to be in the same carriage as Draco, he had started in on how immature she was for not being able to look past their differences "for the sake of a friend." It certainly didn't help matters that Pansy immediately chimed in and practically browbeat Jessie into agreeing; consequently, whenever Draco hadn't had his tongue shoved halfway down Pansy's throat he had just smirked at Jessie, a gesture he knew she couldn't stand.

"Panda, come on!" she hollered, shifting the folded robes she carried in her arms.

Blaise hopped out after her, muttering something about never being able to sit in that particular carriage again. He cast a sideways glance at Jessie and took on a pensive expression.

"What?" Jessie asked flatly. _I am __not__ in the mood for this_.

Blaise's thoughtful smile morphed into a devilish grin, no doubt an imitation of Draco's. "Why do you hate him?" he asked brightly, as if he already knew the answer.

"Why do you _like_ him?" Jessie countered acidly.

"Well, I don't exactly fancy boys, you see..."

Jessie rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean, Zabini. He's quite possibly the biggest prat to ever walk the earth."

Blaise snickered. "No, Saint Potter is."

"They tie."

Blaise sidled up next to her and leaned against the carriage. "Honestly, he's never done anything to you—hell, he's barely ever spoken to you, and you treat him like he's the scum of the earth."

_He might well be_.

"How would _you_ know what he has or hasn't done to me?" Jessie asked snappishly. "You've only ever heard his side of a story—which, I might add, is certainly not to be considered an accurate account." She shivered as a breeze fluttered her long hair, and suddenly wished she'd had the sense to tie it back before letting it fly about in the wind. She unfolded her robes and threw them around her shoulders, fastening them at her collarbone. She really hoped Pansy would hurry up; she had all year to snog Draco in the common room where it was at least _warm_.

"There are rumors going around that you two used to be _involved_," Blaise continued, clearly enjoying himself.

Jessie was offended, and she imagined it showed on her face. Her? And that moronic prat?! If she hadn't been so annoyed she would have laughed at the notion of herself and Draco Malfoy dating. Besides, what exactly would they be involved _in_? They were fifth years, for Merlin's sake!

"Zabini, the only way Draco Malfoy and I would ever be involved would be if my fist was involved with his nose," she deadpanned. _And once I find out who started those rumors, I'm going to kill them_.

"Ooh, you're feisty tonight."

"Pansy!" Jessie shouted. "Malfoy! One of you better get out here before I curse him!"

"All I'm saying is—"

"JESS!"

A head of long, silky blonde hair dashed forward and crushed Jessie in a tight hug. Jessie could barely breathe; as if the hug itself wasn't enough, the cloud of perfume surrounding the person was sickly sweet to the point where Jessie didn't _want_ to inhale.

"Oof—miss me much, Daph?" Jessie laughed a little. Already her spirits were picking up; the torment of Blaise and Draco couldn't stand up to Daphne Greengrass when she was excited.

"Of _course_ I did!" Daphne said excitedly. "Oh, and look!" She thrust a hand under Jessie's nose; on her finger was a silver ring with a small, bright red ruby glittering in the lamplight from the castle.

"Wow," Jessie said, leaning back to stare at it. "Uh... Daph, it's gorgeous. Who _gave_ it to you though?"

Daphne giggled and bounced on the balls of her feet, her blue eyes shining in the dusky light. "His name's Edward and he goes to Durmstrang," she gushed. "I met him on holiday in Germany. He's seventeen and gorgeous and oh, I think he's brilliant!"

Jessie eyed the ring suspiciously. "But you're not..."

"Engaged? Oh, Merlin no!" Daphne laughed. "But between you and me, I wouldn't mind!"

"What in the world is going on out here?"

Pansy climbed down from the carriage, straightening her skirt. Draco followed behind, his usually perfect hair slightly disheveled and his tie pulled partway out of his sweater.

"Pansy!" Daphne squealed yet again, grabbing the unsuspecting girl's arms and jumping up and down. Behind them, Blaise mocked them by jumping around and clapping his hands with a look of idiotic glee on his face.

"Took you long enough," a voice said next to Jessie's shoulder. "I was beginning to wonder if you were coming back at all."

Jessie turned and her smile crept back onto her face. "Aurelia!" she said cheerily, giving the girl a quick hug. Aurelia patted her back and moved to stand beside her, keeping one arm around her shoulder.

"How are you?" she asked quietly, leaning in to whisper in her ear. "You hanging in alright?"

Jessie nodded, not wanting to say anything someone might hear. Unwanted people always seemed to be listening these days. "I'm alright," she replied with a small smile.

"You sure? When you didn't owl me most of the summer I wondered if you'd gone off the deep end."

Jessie's smile grew. "I'm okay, I promise."

"All right. But if it'd make you feel better I'll Transfigure Malfoy back into his true ferrety form," Aurelia said with a wicked grin, running her hand through her glossy black hair.

For that reason alone Jessie was glad to be Aurelia's best friend—she always had something up her sleeve to make her feel better. She despised Draco as much as Jessie did, but the only difference between her and Jessie was that the former was able to keep it civil and even somewhat friendly when speaking to him. Aurelia had always joked it was a rule between them: "families with money always acknowledge each other," she had said.

"All right, Malfoy?" Aurelia called. Draco glanced over from his conversation with some sixth years and nodded in acknowledgment.

Pansy hugged Aurelia tersely in greeting and opened her mouth to say something when Aurelia looked past her and frowned grimly. "Oh look, _Our Savior's_ arrived," she said in mock relief.

Daphne craned her neck over Jessie's shoulder and laughed excitedly. "Oh good, the Mudblood's with him!" she cried.

Jessie watched Daphne carefully as a malicious look twisted her features. It never ceased to amaze her how much of a contradiction that girl was: she was bubblier than champagne, a hopeless romantic, and had an eye for the most decadent jewelry in the world. Just from appearances no one would ever know she had been raised in a Pureblood supremacy household and carried the traditions of her parents wholeheartedly to school with her each year. Jessie sometimes wondered if her hatred of Muggleborns was learned by her own reasons, or forced upon her by the Greengrass family. Jessie had met her parents once before and had learned very quickly not to mention the fact that her mother now lived the life of a Muggle.

The blonde girl danced around the edge of the group to face Harry, flanked as usual by Ron and Hermione, and waved innocently. "Hey Granger!" she said excitedly.

Granger continued to walk right past her, ignoring the group of staring Slytherins altogether. Behind the group of girls, Blaise muttered something to Draco and suppressed a laugh.

"Granger, I'm talking to you!"

Hermione barely spared a glance at her over her shoulder and muttered, "sod off."

"Now, that's not very nice!" Daphne called as the girls around her 'ooh'ed. "You need some soap to get that dirt out of your blood—maybe then you can learn some manners!" She pointed her wand at the girl and a jet of pinky-orange light shot from her wand; it hit Hermione in the mouth before she could dodge it or defend herself. Immediately white, frothy bubbles spilled from her lips and she shrieked loudly, clapping a hand over her mouth and sputtering between screams of rage. Ron rushed over to help her and an enraged-looking Harry pulled out his wand. He raised it and pointed it at the blonde girl, who shrieked with laughter; she didn't consider him a threat in the least. Ron grabbed his arm and pulled him back with a venomous glare at Daphne, shaking his head at Harry.

Pansy laughed gleefully along with the other girls, leaning against Daphne for support. Draco doubled over in laughter, clutching his middle, and Blaise roared and stamped his feet, tears stinging the corners of his eyes. Jessie risked a look over her shoulder and saw Harry and Ron helping Hermione up to the castle. Silhouetted by the lamplight spilling onto the lawn from the doors, Professor McGonagall met them at the steps; Harry said something harshly and gestured toward the Slytherin group, most of whom took no notice of this and were still laughing. Professor McGonagall glared at Jessie sternly over the tops of her spectacles and she quickly turned around, stifling another laugh and pretending not to have noticed.

"Did you see her face?" Aurelia cackled, running a hand through her short hair.

"That ought to teach her!"

"Teach her _what_, Miss Parkinson?" said a reproachful voice from behind them.

Pansy cursed and spun to see Professor McGonagall standing there, looking as strict and angry as she had ever seen her. "I cannot _believe_ you girls, causing trouble before you've even set foot in the castle!" McGonagall reprimanded. She turned her harsh gaze upon Daphne. "Miss Greengrass, Potter tells me you're the guilty party."

Daphne, suddenly devoid of the jubilance she'd had minutes ago, crossed her arms sullenly and stared into the dirt. Seeing that McGonagall's back was to her, Jessie took a cue from Draco and Blaise and began to sneak up the hill with them, attempting to be inconspicuous.

"Miss Diggory, you're just as guilty as she is. _Get back here_."

Jessie spun on her heel. "Why?" she demanded. "_I_ didn't curse Granger!"

McGonagall turned to her and gave her a look of admonishment, her lips set in a thin line. "You stood idly by and laughed while another student suffered at the mercy of one of your friends."

Jessie grumbled something under her breath and trudged back toward the group. Why was she being punished for something Daphne did? She couldn't help but laugh at something she found to be funny and harmless. Besides, how many times have people laughed at something gone awry in her class and never been punished?

"Miss Greengrass, ten points from Slytherin," McGonagall continued brusquely. "You will also have detention with me Sunday night at eight o'clock."

"Sunday?!" Daphne echoed indignantly. "Professor, Sunday's our welcome back party!"

Professor McGonagall drew herself up to her full height and looked down her nose at Daphne. "Perhaps you should have thought of that before you decided to hex Miss Granger," she replied. "I will be notifying Professor Snape of this. Any more incidents and you girls will be dealing with the Headmaster." She turned and marched up the hill toward the doors, and the girls turned to each other, their jovial moods dampened.

"I only got in trouble because I'm a Slytherin," Daphne pouted. "If I was one of her precious Gryffindors it wouldn't have mattered."

"And as if Snape cares, besides," Jessie chimed in. "He's probably preferred to hex that know-it-all once or twice too."

Noticing that all the other students were filing toward the doors, Pansy started up the hill and beckoned to the others to follow. Filch was impatiently waiting by the entrance to close the doors with Mrs. Norris twirling around his ankles. "Come on," she called, looking back at them with a wicked grin. "We've got to make sure Bubbles is okay!"

The girls burst out laughing again: Jessie had to lean on Aurelia for support, and Daphne laughed so hard she snorted. They made enough racket as they passed into the Entrance Hall that students stared at them with a mixture of expressions on their faces, and Mrs. Norris even fled from her spot at Filch's feet.

The girls were still smiling when they sat down at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall moments later. Jessie leaned her elbow on the table and prepared herself for the Sorting ceremony, which always took far longer than it ought to. She waved at several other classmates who shouted to her and, as she was turning around to mention that she noticed a hickey on fourth year Gilda Hodgekin's neck, she caught sight of Hermione glaring in her direction from across the Hall. She nudged Pansy and waved sweetly at Hermione, flashing the frizzy-haired girl a smile that had as much false sweetness as she could muster.

"I suppose she's still upset about her _cleaning_," Pansy laughed quietly.

Jessie glanced next to Hermione and saw that Harry was watching her too. She simply raised her eyebrows at him as if challenging him. Harry just clenched his jaw and shook his head a little bit, looking away as if he couldn't be bothered with looking at her any longer.

After the Sorting ceremony, Dumbledore stood to make his usual start of term announcements. "Welcome back, everyone," he said diplomatically. "And for those new students, welcome. This year we have several changes I feel you should be aware of. First and foremost, we have a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Dolores Umbridge. Since we had a shortage of professors, the Ministry gladly allowed her to step in and fill the position." He extended an arm toward the teacher's table, where a short, squat woman sat primly between Professors McGonagall and Snape. Between the professors' dark robes, she looked very out of place with a large fuchsia bow atop her round head. Snape kept glancing warily at her with a strange look on his face, as if he was worried she might burst into an explosion of brightly-colored confetti at any moment. The woman inclined her head and waved as if she were addressing a crowd of fans, though there was only a small smattering of applause for her.

"It is a pleasure to have you here, Professor," Dumbledore continued. "Next, I should advise you that Divination classes have been moved to another tower on account of reparations being made in the areas around the classroom..."

* * *

At the Gryffindor table, Ron was still grumbling about the hex Daphne had put on Hermione. They had managed to reverse it, but it had taken longer than it should have. The one person aside from a teacher who could have told them the counter-hex _was_ Hermione, and she could hardly open her mouth before bubbles streamed forth. They had taken her up to Madam Pomfrey who, to their chagrin, actually fought back a smile as she performed the spell to reverse the hex.

"I can't believe that bloody bitch did that," he hissed to Hermione. "I ought to curse each and every one of the evil buggers—there was no reason for them to touch you!"

Hermione tucked her thick brown hair behind her ear. She appreciated the fact that Ron was adamant about exacting revenge, but he had been going on about it for the past half hour. He had yelled about it on the way up to the hospital wing, complained about it on the way back down to the feast, and now he was still irritated about it. Yes, she was flattered that he was that upset that someone had cursed her, but he was beginning to grate on her nerves. She opened her mouth to tell him quite plainly to shut up, but she hiccupped and a small bubble escaped from her mouth and floated over the table up toward the ceiling.

From across the table she heard a snort. Ginny had apparently noticed this too, because she was covering her mouth and, if Hermione had an opinion on it, doing a poor job of trying to appear as if she wasn't laughing. Hermione sighed and dropped her head into her hand in defeat. Ginny was generally a nice girl, but now wasn't exactly one of those times when Hermione wanted to be laughed at. She had just been humiliated in front of a good amount of her classmates—now was _not_ the time to poke fun at the matter.

"You alright, Hermione?" Ron asked concernedly.

Hermione, still with her face in her hand, waved at hand at him dismissively. Thank Merlin he hadn't seen the bubble; he probably would have gone on a tirade and attacked the Slytherin table if he had. "I'm _fine_, Ron," she muttered, tasting bitter remnants of soap on her tongue as she spoke. She wrinkled her nose and, for the first time in her life, wished Dumbledore would hurry it up with the speech so she could get a drink to wash the taste from her mouth.

In actuality she was not fine. It may have been childish and alluded to some sort of psychodynamic inability to cope with the exclusion she felt as a child, but Hermione did _not_ like to be embarrassed. Sure, she always raised her hand in class until she got the attention of everyone in the room, but that was because she knew she was never wrong. Being humiliated in front of friends as well as enemies was a whole different story.

Luckily, Ron seemed to accept this answer and turned to engage in conversation with Harry, who was equally unresponsive.

Harry continued to watch the aforementioned Umbridge woman closely. Something about her beady eyes and the way she suspiciously watched anyone who made a sudden movement unnerved him. He knew that the Ministry just happening to send someone from their own departments to fill the position wasn't a coincidence. Fudge had sent one of his officials here for a reason: perhaps it was to oversee the constantly changing Defense faculty, or perhaps they weren't satisfied with the academic quality. Or perhaps she was here to spy on him, to make sure he wasn't causing trouble or spreading rumors about Voldemort's return. If they hadn't believed him back in June they certainly didn't now, not if they allowed the _Prophet_ to strike him down on a daily basis.

He sat and ate in silence for the rest of the meal, unable to ignore the gnawing feeling in his stomach that home wasn't home anymore.

* * *

**Note: **Sorry this took a little while to get out—I finally went on spring break and got a break from the constant stream of work. On another note, certain events will be canon with the books (Umbridge, for example). It might seem a little strange, but trust me—it's going somewhere. Oh, and thanks to everyone for all the alert adds! =)


	6. Inter House Unity, Part One

**CHAPTER V  
Inter-House Unity, Part I**

Monday morning students awoke to a gray, dreary sky filled with dark clouds that threatened rain. A strong wind whipped across the grounds, howling through outdoor corridors and whistling past windows. The foul weather had picked up around five that morning, but no one else in the dormitory seemed to have been bothered by it. In fact, the one person who had been awake to hear it hardly seemed to notice.

Harry was lying on his back, hands behind his head and blankets tossed carelessly around his legs. He was still bothered by Umbridge's presence at the school and hadn't slept much the previous night because of it. He couldn't understand how Dumbledore could allow her to be here—didn't he realize what was going to happen? By having someone at the school who vehemently denied the evidence that Voldemort was back, he might as well be giving the Slytherins free reign to do whatever they wanted. No doubt Umbridge would beat down anyone who tried to confirm the stories going around that had cropped up in June after the Tournament—after all, why shouldn't she? According to the Ministry (and some other ignorant sources) he was just a trouble-causing liar who was in it all for the attention. Never mind that a student had died, and _not_ at his hands (as proven by the _Priori Incantatum_ spell cast on his wand). Never mind he had shown up, cut and bloodied, carrying Cedric's body out of the maze and on the verge of a panic attack.

Of course it was a scheme.

He had been tormenting himself with thoughts of what could happen if the Slytherins went unchecked for nearly two hours when Dean's alarm went off at six o'clock, jolting everyone from their sleep. Seamus groaned and covered his head with his pillow, pressing it over his ears. Ron chucked his own pillow at the clock and succeeded in hitting Dean with it, who whipped it back at him with such force it tore the hangings from one side of Ron's bed.

"Oi! I wasn't aiming for you!" Ron said snappishly as he stumbled out of bed. Dean just grumbled something that could have been an apology (but knowing him, probably wasn't) and followed suit, shaking a still asleep Neville roughly as he passed by on his way to the lavatory.

Harry rubbed his tired eyes and dragged himself off the bed and over to his trunk. He changed into his uniform and robes quietly, ignoring Ron and Dean's bickering in the lavatory.

"Morning 'arry," Neville yawned as he pulled on his shoes.

"Morning."

"Blimey, you look dead on your feet," Neville commented. "Did you sleep at all?"

Harry straightened his tie and threw on his robes. "Not really."

Neville apparently took this to mean nothing of importance. "Well, at least we've got something easy to start us off—it's second class that's going to drive us into the madhouse."

Harry glanced into the mirror above his nightstand and stared at his own confused expression. "Why, what's second?" He hadn't bothered to check his schedule yet when he could just as easily count on Ron to tell him where they were going.

"Double Potions with the Slytherins."

Neville said this as if it were being sentenced to Azkaban. Harry suspected he disliked Potions not so much because of the Slytherins, but because he wasn't much good at it and Snape took every opportunity to point this fact out.

"Fantastic," Harry muttered. He ran his hands through his hair and stopped to examine his reflection. His attempts at taming his hair certainly hadn't worked, but at least now it wasn't pointing every which way and was _somewhat_ controlled.

"Why do they do this to us?" Ron complained. He had the Gryffindors' schedule in his hand and was waving it in the air to emphasize his point. "They know we can't stand each other, and yet here we are, with three classes together this year!" He slipped into his shoes and slung his backpack over his shoulder, trailing his untied laces on the floor as he started down the dormitory stairs. "It doesn't even make sense! Why would they even bother..."

The boys filed out of the dormitory after Ron, only half-awake and not quite listening to the rest of his rant. By the time they had gotten out of the common room and into the corridor, Ron had quieted himself to a dull grumbling. Harry walked beside him undisturbed and not quite paying attention to him, his thoughts from earlier that morning filling his mind again.

* * *

In the fifth-year Slytherin dormitories a shrill, screeching alarm clock went off abruptly, echoing off the round stone walls. Someone grumbled "_confringo!_" from across the room, a wand swished through the air, and the clock was blasted apart with a rather satisfying clink of metal on stone.

Jessie groaned and pulled the covers over her head, snuggling deeper into her bed. She knew how cold that floor was, and Merlin be damned if she was going to willingly get out of her warm cocoon of blankets to walk around on frigid stone. She had been awake for a few minutes already, but that didn't lessen her desire to smash that alarm clock into oblivion, either. But apparently that had already been taken care of.

"That was my clock, you drunken harlot!" Jessie heard Aurelia call in annoyance.

Someone, presumably Pansy, groaned. "Oh shut up!" This was then followed by, "oh Merlin, my head..."

"Wakey wakey!"

Jessie barely had the time to register how close Aurelia's voice was to her before something landed heavily on her back, nearly knocking the wind out of her. She yelped and threw the blanket off her head to see Aurelia sprawled on top of her, grinning at her like someone who had just played a very clever prank.

"Get _off_ me!" Jessie whined. "It's barely..." She grabbed her watch from the nightstand and glanced at it. "six-fifteen?! What's the matter with you?"

Aurelia bounced off the bed, jarring it even more, and grabbed the corner of her blankets. "Come on, sleeping beauty!" She yanked the covers off Jessie, who couldn't react fast enough to pull them back over herself. As the cold dormitory air washed over her skin she curled up into a ball and wrapped her arms around herself, trying to cover up the exposed skin her pajamas didn't. The fire must have gone out sometime during the night; normally one of the House Elves would have restocked the wood, but last year Pansy had gone off on one of them and now they were afraid to enter the girls' dormitory at all.

Her eyes flew open as Aurelia grabbed her arm and hauled her out of bed. Wincing as her cold feet touched the floor, she quickly jumped onto the blankets to keep her feet warm. The other girls were more groggy and cranky than she was, stumbling around the dormitories and rubbing their eyes and yawning. However, it appeared that Jessie was the only one of them _not_ nursing a hangover. Pansy covered her eyes with her hand as she tried to change, and Daphne was sitting cross-legged on her bed with her head in her hands and moaning.

"I'm never drinking again..."

The Slytherins' welcome back parties were always the best part about starting the school year, and last night was no exception. There had been music and dancing, snogging sessions, and apparently a good amount of alcohol as well. Jessie had been avoiding it not because she didn't drink, but because she didn't trust the people who had provided it. Fabian Wormack, the seventh-year captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, and several of his friends (inclusive of Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini) had somehow gotten their hands on an abundant variety of firewhiskey, vodka, and some strangely-colored liquids that Jessie made a point to stay away from altogether. She had been drinking from the punch bowl, but around eight o'clock Zabini started hanging around the drinks table and Jessie decided maybe it wasn't such a smart idea anymore. She had gone to find Aurelia, the one person she could count on to keep her entertained while surrounded by so much drunkenness, only to find her snogging on the couch with the aforementioned Fabian.

Snape, of course, was nowhere to be found. He rarely entered the common room as it was (probably to avoid scenarios such as last night's), but someone had announced he was in a meeting with Umbridge and Dumbledore, and that was apparently the green light for the festivities. By the time the students had arrived in the common room after dinner, the Slytherin banners and decorations had been put up, as well as some enchanted green and silver orbs that floated around on the ceiling above everyone's heads. By nine o'clock the party had been in full swing, and by two in the morning, half of the fifth through seventh years were passed out on the floor, in chairs, and on top of tables.

"Why are you doing this?" Jessie complained to Aurelia, throwing her trunk open loudly. She grabbed her uniform and undergarments from the trunk and began to change as quickly as she could, which was still a rather slow pace.

"Because none of you take responsibility for yourselves," Aurelia said simply. She was perched at the end of her bed with her legs crossed, makeup and mirror in hand. She was already dressed and ready to go; if she had a hangover from last night, she certainly wasn't showing it.

"Liar! She just wants to eat breakfast with Fabian before he heads out to the Quidditch fields!" Daphne hollered, still clutching at her head.

Aurelia picked up a pillow and launched it at Daphne, who tried to dodge it and got tangled in the mess of blankets on the floor. She threw the pillow back at Aurelia and disappeared into the lavatory before the girl could retaliate. "She's full of it," Aurelia muttered, going back to her makeup.

"Oh really?" Jessie challenged, bending over to pull on her socks. "What's with all the makeup?" she asked with a smirk.

Aurelia shot her a look over her mirror. "Don't start."

"That eyeliner sure is fancy."

"I swear on my _life_ I will hex you."

Jessie just stuck her tongue out at her friend before grabbing her hairbrush out of her trunk. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Daphne fall back onto her bed and cover her head with her arm. Jessie just shook her head and went back to her morning routine.

Once Jessie and the rest of the girls made their way up the stairs and into the common room, they found that most of those who had succumbed to an alcohol-induced sleep the previous night were still where their classmates and friends had left them. The girls kicked their way through cups, streamers, and empty bottles and snack packages as they made their way out the common room and down the hall to breakfast. Pansy refused to open her eyes and thus had Daphne leading her by the hand so she wouldn't trip or knock into anyone. Every time Aurelia or Jessie tried to speak Pansy smacked them, which, considering she was hung over and they were not, was quite an effective method of keeping the silence. When Jessie pointed out that the Great Hall was going to be loud anyway, Pansy just made a rude gesture at her and continued on silently.

They seated themselves at the table and surveyed the rest of the Slytherins who were there already: many of the younger students were there, but aside from those on the Quidditch team, the older students were nowhere to be found. Jessie supposed they were the ones still on the floor in the common room. The Quidditch team wasn't looking very good either. Fabian was leaning over his plate, his head dangerously close to falling into his eggs; the Beaters were asleep on their plates, and two of the Chasers were eating very carefully to avoid too much head and muscle movement.

Aurelia nudged Jessie and walked off to sit with Fabian. Jessie guided Daphne and Pansy to the table and sat them down carefully before seating herself. For some reason she was incredibly hungry and grabbed one of everything within her reach; she knew she'd regret it later, but her reasoning for this was that she wouldn't be _hungry_ later.

"Hey, have some food, why don't you?" Daphne joked, gingerly sipping at some pumpkin juice.

Jessie looked over at Daphne's empty plate and gestured to it. "Shove it and eat something, will you?" she ordered. "You're too thin."

"I'm not hungry," Daphne defended. "Besides, I can't eat the way you can. I'll get fat and look like that sixth year who _apparently_ doesn't realize she needs to buy a larger uniform."

Jessie shrugged. "I have to run this off later," she informed around a mouthful of muffin crumbs.

"Huh?" Apparently Daphne was a stranger to the ever-hateful world of exercise.

"Run. It. Off—if I don't it'll go straight to my thighs." She took a sip of juice to wash down the muffin and bit into her toast. "Family curse."

"What are you talking about?" Pansy snapped. "You look fine."

"Right, because I _run_," Jessie insisted. "My mom's side of the family has horrible metabolism."

"What the hell is mebatilism?" Daphne asked, bewildered. "And why can't you just not eat? It's not that bad." She winced and grabbed at her forehead again.

"Because I like food!"

"Then toss it up afterward like the fourth years do!"

Jessie threw an orange slice at her. "Are you bloody bonkers? Do you realize that without food you'll _die?_"

"Draco's been asking about you lately," Pansy interrupted, evidently oblivious to the conversation around her. She fixed Jessie with a rather suspicious look, as if she were trying to accuse Jessie of something without actually saying anything.

_Lovely_.

"Well, I have no interest in asking about _him_, and if you'd pass that information along I'd greatly appreciate it," she replied testily, waving her fork at Pansy. She didn't need or want Draco Malfoy poking around her life; she wasn't sure why he decided their fifth year was a good time to start pestering her after ignoring her for the previous four years, but she had reasoned that he had to be quite stupid not to realize he wasn't getting anywhere with whatever he was trying to accomplish.

"He asked about your brother and if you two were close," Pansy continued, oblivious to Jessie's annoyance. "Why would he care?"

Jessie rolled her eyes. "I'm the wrong person to answer that," she pointed out. "Why don't you go ask _him?_"

"Because he says it bothers him when I ask him questions," Pansy said, as if this were obvious.

Jessie paused with her fork halfway to her mouth and stared at her friend. Had she honestly heard that?

"And you say _I've_ got problems," Daphne blurted out, taking a tentative sip of water from her goblet.

"Sod off."

* * *

By the time their second class had started, Jessie was beginning to feel as though surviving breakfast while listening to her twisted friends' problems was the high point of her day. She had dropped her books on the stairs on her way to class; she'd answered a question incorrectly in Charms and was humiliated when Draco corrected her; and just now she was running through the corridors on her way back from retrieving the Potions book she had left in the Charms classroom.

She closed the dungeon door quietly, trying to make as little noise as possible as she scanned the dim room for an available seat. Unfortunately, the only spot she could see that was available was next to a blond-haired boy that she had already had the misfortune of speaking to too many times that day.

"You've got to be kidding me," she breathed.

"Miss Diggory," a venomous voice drawled. "How nice of you to finally join us. Far be it for you to make it to class _on time_. Take a seat."

As if on cue, every head in the dungeon turned to stare at her. Jessie slid into the seat next to Malfoy, suddenly feeling very much like an exhibit at the zoo. He gave her a mildly curious look before turning his eyes back to the front of the room.

"Interesting company you keep," he remarked, "I thought you'd rather gouge your eyes out than hear my voice again?"

"I didn't have a choice, did I?" Jessie muttered. She turned to reach for the Potions book inside her backpack and glanced over at the table next to her. The ever-annoying Granger suppressed a chuckle, obviously listening to the conversation going on beside her, and flipped through the pages of the textbook. Jessie's eyes moved over to Harry Potter and caught his gaze for a split second before he became extremely interested in his ink well and began to fidget with it. Jessie dismissed this and plopped her book onto her table loudly.

"Close your textbooks," Snape commanded the class. "Today's lesson will consist only of basic Muggle science concepts and requires no bookwork. In light of recent... events, I'm sure most of you have enough sense to understand why. Therefore, many of you will need to rely on those familiar with Muggle teachings to complete your work. The instructions are on the board. Get going."

"What—_why?_" someone in the front row asked.

Snape stopped mid-stride and glared at the poor Gryffindor who had dared to venture the question. "Because I am the teacher and this is the assignment you have been given," he declared loudly. "If you do not wish to comply with my classroom policies then you may leave and receive a failing grade for this class."

With that he pointed his wand to the front of the room and a large, neat script began to write across the chalkboard. Jessie snuck a peek at Granger, who was smiling like an idiot; obviously she was pleased that her Muggle upbringing would finally be useful at a Wizarding school. Granger looked up and caught Jessie's gaze for a moment before looking away quickly; Jessie merely stuffed her book back in her backpack and turned back to her work.

Meanwhile, Draco and Pansy were staring at the board, open-mouthed and horrified, as if it had just sprouted arms and legs and was on a rampage.

"A...g...N..." Draco mumbled. "What the hell does that mean?"

"I don't know," Pansy replied desolately. "I've never... I bet the _Mudblood_ knows," she grumbled, clearly wanting to be heard.

The "Mudblood" in question glared over at Pansy and gripped her wand tightly, her jaw clenched. After what she assumed was a satisfactory angry look she flipped her bushy brown hair over her shoulder to hide them from her view.

"Do you know what any of this rubbish means?" Draco asked, turning to Jessie.

Jessie rolled her eyes. _Why_ was he talking to her again? Hadn't she made it clear she didn't want him to? "It's an oxidation-reduction reaction," she explained, somewhat haughtily. "It's one of the most basic chemical reactions. He's starting us off with something simple."

"_That's_ not simple," Draco argued. "Stop being a bloody twit and help me."

"I thought you'd gladly rid yourself of my company once you got my book?" Jessie shot back.

Draco sneered. "I changed my mind."

Jessie glanced over at him primly. "Stuff it."

She bent down over her paper and, rather smugly, started scribbling on the paper, occasionally glancing to her left to make sure Malfoy wasn't trying to cheat off her.

Pansy twisted in the seat in front of Jessie to look at her. "You're a Pureblood," she hissed. "How do you know this stuff?" she hissed.

Jessie ventured a quick glance at Draco and saw him watching her again. It was getting increasingly annoying and for a split second she contemplated shoving something up his nose just to make him go away. She leaned forward, trying her hardest not to be heard, and whispered, "this is what my mum does for work, remember? I told you that."

"Oh... right." Pansy turned back around, but not before Jessie saw the look of contempt on her face.

Meanwhile, Hermione was trying to explain the chemical process on the board to Harry and Ron, who were staring at her as if she had two heads. She had to admit she couldn't blame them—enough Muggle kids had trouble with chemical equations, let alone Wizarding students who had no idea that chemistry was even a word.

"...it's easy, really, once you get the hang of it," she kept saying. "It's the foundation of all chemical sciences."

"Those aren't even words—words don't have _numbers_ in them!" Ron countered.

Harry ruffled his already messy hair and stared at the board, his eyes narrowed. "What's the point in making us learn this, anyway?" he asked. "Chemistry has nothing to do with magic. Look around—no one has any idea what this is."

He was right. The entire class was either asking Snape to explain the problems on the board or begging to be given an alternative assignment. Snape, as anyone could have predicted, was becoming visibly agitated and looked as if he were on the verge of cursing someone.

"Don't you see though?" Hermione said in a low voice. "It's because of that attack on Perfidus Borgin. The _Prophet_ said the shop was destroyed with _Muggle_ explosives..."

While Hermione went off on a tangent about the attacks over the summer, Harry leaned back on the bench and looked over at the cluster of Slytherins on the other side of the room. None of them had any idea what to do either, but no one was making any collaborative efforts to help one another out. In fact, the only person who seemed to know what she was doing was Jessie Diggory, and she was actively trying to block Malfoy from copying from her notes with well-placed elbow jabs and insults.

_Typical_, Harry thought derisively.

The students spent the rest of the class in a quiet state, unable to complete the class work but too afraid to speak up and risk infuriating Snape, who was standing at the front of the room watching each and every move a student made. When class was over everyone was in a strange hurry to leave the dungeons, much more than usual. The rest of the day passed by in the usual tedious manner, in which the teachers explained the course and the students pretended to listen while passing notes to one another or doing homework for another class.

In fact, the only upset the students had was in Transfiguration, just before lunch. Like they had been for the past four years, the fifth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins were paired together in the class; they were so used to this by now that no one ventured a complaint except to roll their eyes or huff indignantly upon seeing members of their rival House in the room.

Toward the end of class Professor McGonagall stood up in front of her desk and motioned for the class to quiet down. Once they were settled, she cleared her throat and adjusted her spectacles on her nose.

"As you well know from Headmaster Dumbledore's speech at the feast, the Ministry wishes for the school's curriculum to integrate students with one another—'inter-House unity,' as Professor Umbridge terms it. Thus, our mission this year is to emphasize unity among students and teachers alike. In concordance with this, I've designed an assignment for all of you." She paused for effect, to ensure she had everyone's attention. "You will work with one other student in this class for the duration of the year to teach yourselves and each other the curriculum stated in your books. You may have as much time as you need to complete the assignment, provided you have completed your work by the time you take your O.W.L.s. In addition, your final exams will contain more practical challenges than in years past to prove you have sufficiently learned the material."

The students glanced around at one another, a mixture of emotions on their faces. Some began chatting amongst themselves while others pointed at one another as if claiming the other as their partner.

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat again and the class fell silent once more, turning their attention back to her. She seemed strained as she continued her announcement.

"There is, however, a catch."

A slight murmur ran across the room as students exchanged wary glances with one another. Professor McGonagall took a deep breath and exhaled quietly, as if dreading her next words.

"You may not work with someone from your own House."

* * *

Ooh, not cool. Sorry this took so long to update! With finals coming up schoolwork took over my life and I barely had time to get to a computer let alone write anything. But rest assured the next chapter is well under way and it should be out no later than the third week of May (after finals). But for all those who've added me to their alert lists, you'll know that anyway. Please review, and thanks for reading!


	7. Inter House Unity, Part Two

Note: This entire chapter, exclusive of the first paragraph, is in 1st person POV—figured I'd shake it up a little and give you an insight to what they're _really_ thinking. And yes, I know it's only been three days since I posted Chapter 5. I couldn't stop writing... I even put off term papers for this.

Enjoy!

**CHAPTER VI  
Inter-House Unity, Part Two**

In an instant the room's silence dissolved into utter chaos. Students stood up to argue with her; some were yelling across the room with well-chosen expletives and exclamations of hostility toward their rivals, and others still just looked at their friends with forlorn shock as if they'd just been sentenced to a fate worse than death. Professor McGonagall stood placidly in front of her desk and fought the urge to sigh as some of the hostility turned toward her.

**.:Jessie:.**

I just stared at the woman in front of the class, harboring a feeling that bordered on personal insult. There was no way I'd heard correctly. What did she mean, 'we can't work with someone from our own House?' What kind of sick game was she playing? Was she raving mad? She had to be to believe any of us would stoop so low as to work with those goody two-shoes pricks. We wanted nothing to do with them, and I'm fairly certain they felt the same about us, with the exception of a few insults and profanities. What was the point in torturing us like this? We all knew mixing red with green in this place was a bad idea. We were far too ruthless for them to withstand us, and they... well, they were completely incompetent. Just because they were brave didn't mean they were smart.

With the word _incompetent_ still burning in my mind, I snuck a glance across the room at that unfortunate Longbottom boy. Sure, he was nice enough—even if he was scared of us—but I'd taken classes with him before. I knew the damage he was capable of causing with a single flick of his wand, and I was none too eager to become the recipient of that disaster. The last thing I needed was to be Transfigured into a tree and then not be able to be turned back. At least none of the fifth-year Slytherins were that catastrophic.

Well, except for maybe Crabbe and Goyle.

"Everyone QUIET!" McGonagall shouted.

The uproar died at once. Whether angry, fearful, or just downright indignant, we all stared at her. In the back of my head I noted that it was somewhat impressive for a teacher to possess the ability to get everyone's attention that quickly without resorting to magic.

"I'm not pleased about the arrangement any more than you are," McGonagall said in what I thought was a dangerous tone. "Merlin knows I would rather not listen to you all complain about this from now until June. But there is no point in arguing with what you cannot change, so you might as well save your breath and put it toward something of use. If you have complaints of concerns you may direct them at Professor Umbridge; as a result of her reports to the Ministry regarding the way the school's academics are handled—" no one missed the angry spark in her eye as she emphasized _academics_ "—the Minister left it in her hands to decide what is best for Hogwarts' education. And that includes control over _my_ classroom."

I couldn't help but wonder if she was upset because Umbridge might have implied she was a less than fantastic teacher. I myself liked her, mostly because she had a no-nonsense attitude and wasn't partial to her own students over anyone else.

"It's quite possible I'm wasting my breath, but do I have any volunteers to work together?" she continued sternly, glaring at us all over her glasses. As if that would make us willingly resign ourselves to Hell.

We all just looked around at each other; none of us wanted to work together, and the Gryffindors seemed to hate us as much as we hated them. Not surprisingly, both sides of the classroom were staring down at their desks in silence; they avoiding looking at anyone from the other House, and also actively avoided McGonagall's gaze so they wouldn't be mistaken for volunteering.

As I scanned the room I snuck a glance behind me at Granger. Every once in a while she would purse her lips and make a disgusted face—apparently that soap hex had a lasting effect. I was glad someone had finally done _something_ about her—maybe she'll remember it the next time she tries to act high-and-mighty. I wasn't one for unprovoked torment or humiliation of people, but let's face it: Granger needed to be knocked down a few notches. She's convinced she knows everything about everything, and just because she's at the top of our class doesn't entitle her to walk around with her nose up in the air. She's human just like the rest of us.

As I watched she looked up and fixed me with the coldest stare I'd received in quite a while. Not that it phased me much, but I didn't know she had it in her. I flashed her another sickly sweet smile before turning my attention to the front of the room.

_This ought to be __real__ fun_, I thought darkly.

McGonagall sighed. "Alright then," she said. To me it sounded like a warning. "You're being assigned according to where you're sitting. Miss Cutteridge, you'll be working with Miss Granger—"

I managed to stifle a laugh and glanced to my left at Aurelia, who sat motionless with her hands folded on the table.

"If Granger starts anything she won't last the month," she whispered, too low for even McGonagall to hear ten feet from us.

"Don't hurt her too bad," I grinned and turned in my seat to look around at who my unfortunate partner would be, but I wasn't fast enough.

"Miss Diggory, you'll be working with Mr. Potter—"

_WHAT?!_

I glanced back to her so fast I almost looked past where she was. Potter? _Why??_ She can't be serious! Isn't it bad enough we have to work with the House we've been taught to hate? Why couldn't I work with someone I could just dominate over and command not to speak—like Weasley? He seemed spineless enough; he followed Potter around like a trained puppy... maybe I could train him not to speak unless I told him it was alright to do so.

But _not_ Saint Potter. Hell, I'd gladly work in close proximity with Malfoy if it meant being able to avoid Potter. Even Millicent or that dreaded Granger would do. Anyone but _him_.

With a sick feeling in my stomach I looked over my shoulder to the back corner of the room. Potter was staring right back at me, looking as sick as I felt. At least it was a mutual dislike.

As I watched he messed up his hair even further—as if it needed the help—and looked away from me angrily to whisper something in Weasley's ear. Sweet nothings, probably, about how even though they can't work together he'll be thinking of him the whole time.

"Oh, this ought to be a treat," Aurelia chuckled in a low tone next to me.

"I hate this class," Pansy whined from my right. Her head was on the table and she kept shaking it back and forth slowly. I ventured another glance over to the Gryffindor side and saw that Weasley was to Potter's left and had gotten paired with Pansy. I laughed tauntingly and she smacked my arm.

I ignored this and turned my attention back to Aurelia. "At least you'll get yours done well enough, working with Granger," I pointed out. "Give me your hairpin," I said, motioning to the metal clip holding her hair back.

Aurelia wrinkled her nose. "Why?"

"Because I'll need something sharp to deflate Potter's ego."

She snorted. "Treat him the way you treat Malfoy. I'm sure he'll be running terrified in no time."

"If that worked, Malfoy'd be leaving me alone by now," I reasoned, twirling my wand between my fingers.

"He's just a sucker for punishment," Aurelia grinned, looking over her shoulder at the blonde boy behind us. I mimicked her action and he glanced up in annoyance, apparently having heard us. Aurelia blew a mock kiss to him and he responded with a rude gesture that would have gotten him thrown out of class had McGonagall seen him.

"Well here's hoping Potter _isn't_," I muttered. "I don't know if I can handle him bothering me for ten months."

"This is horrible!" Pansy intruded with a hiss. She leaned across the table toward us. "I can't work with the _Weasel!_"

Drama queen. At least none of us voiced our hatred as blatantly—or shrilly—as she did.

"You'll be fine," Aurelia said, rolling her eyes at me. "Just scare him into submission."

I smiled. "Is that your solution to everything?"

She leaned back and propped her elbow up on the table behind her. "No," she said lightly. "But that's not to say they shouldn't be afraid of us anyway."

I let out a laugh. If there was anyone who deserved to be queen bee, it was Aurelia Cutteridge. Born into an extremely old Pureblood family, she was as close as it came to what some would consider royalty. She either commanded or demanded respect wherever she went, and no one was stupid enough to cross her. Sometimes I envied her that way.

Granger had better watch out.

* * *

**.:Harry:.**

"I don't believe this," I grumbled.

Beside me Hermione rolled her eyes and sat up in that prim sort of way she always does, her eyes trained on Professor McGonagall. As she continued pairing off students I let my head fall to the desk and heard my new _partner_ cackle.

Good God, do all evil people laugh like that? I nearly shuddered at the sound.

Why should we have to work with the Slytherins? We all know they're slimy gits—the professors have got to know it too. We can't be the only ones who are aware of how _evil_ they are. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if half of them didn't already have Dark Marks branded on them.

"Well this year is shaping up to be bloody brilliant," Ron quipped beside me.

"Yeah," I said glumly. It was bad enough when I was forced into group work in any class—Ron and I get absolutely nothing done, and Hermione drives me so bonkers I'm usually ready to lock her in a trunk for a week by the time the assignment's over. But _this_... this was just plain cruel.

I cast another glance across the room at the head of long chestnut brown hair that swung around her shoulders as she turned to talk with her friend. From this vantage point she didn't seem nearly so bad as she had Friday night when her little group of friends had cursed Hermione. As I watched, her eyes flickered in my direction for a half second before the black-haired girl next to her recaptured her attention.

I let out a small huff of annoyance.

"Maybe if you're nice to her, it won't be so bad," Hermione suggested.

I assumed she was trying to be helpful, but sometimes she missed the cues that clearly told her I didn't want her opinion. "Yeah, maybe," I mumbled, only half listening. I was straining to hear who Malfoy had gotten paired up with. Whichever poor unfortunate soul it happened to be was going to need a bodyguard to keep safe, otherwise they'll probably be missing by Christmas.

Hermione was apparently very oblivious to whether or not people were listening to her. That, compounded with her ability to ramble on for hours with only the slightest noises of encouragement—a "yeah" or "that's interesting" usually suffices—tends to make me tune her out.

"I think I'll approach Aurelia with nothing but diplomacy," she continued. Maybe she was talking to Ron now. But judging by his doodles on the corner of his parchment it seemed he wasn't paying attention either. "I'll be polite and..."

From the way her hair swung in the corner of my vision I could tell she was looking at me for affirmation. I just nodded. "Sounds great," I said absently.

"You're not even listening to me," she accused.

"Sure I am."

I began counting heads on the Slytherin side of the room, trying to find out who Malfoy had been paired up with. He was the eleventh person in from the corner seat, which meant that...

Hermione _tsk_ed at me, and I saw her cross her arms indignantly. "No you're not. You have no idea what I just said!"

"Oh no," I groaned. Neville was the eleventh person up from our corner of the room. He was currently the color of parchment and kept shooting furtive glances over at Malfoy, who was grinning like a cat who had just eaten a canary.

Hermione was getting shrill, even through her whispers. "It wouldn't kill you to listen to me, you know!"

I looked over at her. "I _do_ listen to you," I insisted. "I'm just preoccupied."

She raised her chin and looked down her nose at me. "With what?" she challenged.

"Neville's got to work with Malfoy all year."

This perked Ron up. "He's going to die," he said matter-of-factly. "He's going to disappear by Christmas, you know. We'll find out fifty years from now that Malfoy transfigured him into a dust bunny."

"Ron!"

"What?" Ron cried. "I'm just saying!"

Neville, diagonally only one row ahead of us, turned toward us. He swallowed with some difficulty and took a shaky breath. He looked as if he was going to be sick.

"Is he really?" he asked, clearly horrified at the prospect of being Transfigured into anything by Malfoy. His wide eyes darted back and forth between us and Malfoy, who was talking in hushed tones to that Zabini kid sitting next to him. He kept looking this way and waving his hands animatedly.

Poor Neville. The kid didn't stand a chance.

"Don't worry, Neville," Ron said confidently. "If he does we'll be sure to sweep extra carefully."

"_Ronald!_"

I leaned back, well out of the way, as Hermione reached around me to smack him. "That's not what he needs to hear!" she hissed.

I watched Neville's expression twist in desolation and he let his head fall back onto the table with a thud.

"Anyway, Harry," Hermione went on, "try to pretend she's not a Slytherin. Mind over matter, you see?"

I looked over at her, confused. "How do you suggest I do _that_?" I asked. I knew she meant well, but I didn't like being given unsolicited advice. I was perfectly capable of analyzing the problem on my own and coming up with a good solution. But since she was already on a roll I might as well let her run with it.

As predicted, she beamed at the chance to impart wisdom on someone else. "Just make the effort to be nice. Forget your Houses are rivals and try to stay positive. It won't give her any ammunition against you." She smiled as if she had just had the epiphany of a lifetime.

This was actually fairly good advice on her part. Sometimes—actually, most of the time—I questioned her theories and methods of dealing with people and wondered if she was talking just to hear the sound of her own voice. But this could work. Play nice, naïve little Harry and maybe—just _maybe_—her natural tendency to act like a Muggle-hating git won't rear its ugly head.

"Y'know, I might try that, Hermione," I said, looking over at the girl again.

As if sensing I was looking at her, she smoothed her hair over her shoulder and looked back at me. Actually, _looked_ was the wrong verb. _Glared_ was a much more appropriate choice for the way she watched me. Was it possible she had heard Hermione and I talking about her? As much as I didn't want to admit it, some of the Slytherins were clever enough to find sneaky ways of eavesdropping and finding out important information. Just to be sure I quickly checked the area around our table for anything that might seem suspicious or out of place.

By the time I looked back she had already turned back to talk to the blonde witch who had hexed Hermione last week. Occasionally the blonde—whose name I couldn't be bothered to remember—would look over at me for a second and grin wickedly as she did so. She whispered something to Jessie then, keeping her eyes on me, but Jessie shook her head tersely and didn't turn around. I thought I saw her head move in my direction for a half second, but she corrected herself as quickly as she'd let it slip.

And people wonder why I'm convinced all Slytherins are scum. Malfoy planning in detail how to make Neville suffer, and the brat pack at the front of the class glaring at me and saying God knows what. They should try to put themselves in my position for a change and see how quickly their attitude changes when all eyes are on _them_.

"Oi!" Ron said loudly over the chatter of the class. "What're you trying to do, read her mind by boring a hole through her skull?"

I wasn't even going to acknowledge him. I was too busy trying to figure out how someone as kind and goodhearted as Cedric Diggory could be blood-related to someone who takes enjoyment in other people's misery and torment.

It just doesn't make any sense.

I felt a sharp tug on my ear and swatted Ron's hand away, annoyed. "Didn't want to leave you here all afternoon," he grinned. I just scowled at him and rubbed my throbbing ear.

All the other students were packing up their things and heading for the door. Ron leaned against the table and waited while I gathered up my books and stuffed my supplies into my bag. Hermione announced she was leaving for Arithmancy and Ron and I both gave her a semi-attentive farewell.

As I made to stand up, someone stopped at the edge of the table and cleared their throat quietly. I glanced up and saw Jessica staring down at me, flanked by her friends. It may have been my imagination, but when I looked up at her I swore she tilted her head to look down her nose at me.

"Potter, if you want to start working on the project I'll be in the library after classes," she said coolly.

I glared up at her. Why should it be on _her_ terms? I've got Quidditch practice after classes!

But before I could open my mouth to protest she was gone, off chatting happily with her friends as if we'd never spoken—although in the technical sense of the word we hadn't. I glowered at her back, hoping by some miracle I might make her hair catch on fire or something.

"See mate?" Ron said with a grimace. "That wasn't... horrific."

I stuffed my books into my backpack angrily and stalked out of the classroom. Who the hell did she think she was? "I'll be in the library"... how do you respond to that? 'Yes, Princess, I will certainly come to your every beck and call, and on your own schedule!' Forget about Malfoy—_this_ girl's going to be my biggest problem this year.

Bloody witch.

* * *

**.:Draco:.**

Longbottom's as good as dead.

This was more than I could have hoped for. The only thing better would be to have been paired with Potter, but McGonagall would never agree to that as she knows he'd be dead faster than you could say 'Hogwarts,' and I didn't quite feel like spending the rest of my days in Azkaban for killing someone over a school project. But this... _this_ was as good as gold. Some people might say tormenting Longbottom was cruel and uncalled for, but I really couldn't care less—it's too much fun.

* * *

A/N: Keep in mind the fact that Jessie's a Slytherin, and everything that entails. She's not all rainbows and sunshine, and in later chapters you'll find out why. If you don't like her right now... good :)


	8. Westminster

Note: Sorry about the delay folks! I've been wicked busy between summer parties, working, and moving into the apartment. So here's this little interlude, and hopefully I'll have Chapter 8 up soon (I am having a bit of writer's block with it, which is killing me). Enjoy, and feedback is always appreciated :)

**CHAPTER VII  
Westminster**

On a dreary Monday afternoon in September, the Muggle Prime Minister sat with his assistant in the dining room atop his favorite hotel, watching the trains arrive and depart at Waterloo Station. While contently eating his preferred meal, he dictated words between bites to the young woman sitting across from him, and she quickly typed away on the clunky black laptop before her. She paused for a second to tuck a stray lock of wavy red hair behind her ear and then went back to her work.

"Marlene, would you like some more tea?" the Prime Minister asked politely.

The young woman shook her head. "No, thank you sir," she declined. "What were you saying about foreign treaties?"

The Prime Minister smiled. He had only been appointed to the position several years prior, but he still considered his assistant his best asset. She was efficient, prompt, and showed no signs of letting her personal life affect her work. Just that morning the Minister had made a mention of visiting the hotel since he hadn't been in a long time, and by the afternoon a dinner arrangement had been made.

A small girl's peal of excited laughter rang across the crowded dining room and caught the Prime Minister's attention.

"Daddy, look!" she cried, pressing her hands against the glass.

Something in the sky was gaining the attention of those seated closest to the large windows. People were murmuring to one another and pointing just as the little girl had done at something among the clouds. Soon some people began rising out of their seats to move to the windows, and the Prime Minister moved with them. After all, he was allowed to be curious too. As he hustled and bustled around one of the large windows facing the river, he plainly saw what everyone was so fascinated by.

The stormy gray clouds that had plagued the greater London area for almost a week straight were illuminated by bright streaks of gold, red, and green. Had these darts of color not been so random, the Prime Minister might have assumed that they were an unusual effect of the Northern Lights; however, the lights darted every which way in a haphazard fashion, in no way following the typical ribbony patterns of the Borealis.

The source of the lights was not so random, however. It all seemed to originate from one point in the sky that, disconcertingly, was moving closer to the river. The atmosphere inside the hotel dining room began to grow more excited as people contemplated the source of the lights with those beside them.

"_Mon dieu, qu'est-ce que c'est?_" a blonde woman beside him asked her husband.

"_Je ne sais pas. Je n'ai jamais rien vu de tel_." The man's gruff voice was filled with worry.

Something about the man's reaction struck a chord in the Prime Minister. When he had taken over for the previous Minister, he had been told there were some things he would not quite understand. Things that were detrimental to the safety and unity of the United Kingdom. Until now, he had assumed it had had something to do with murky foreign affairs or revenue services and had been a bit offended at the Minister's doubt of his ability to comprehend them. After all, he hadn't been appointed Minister due to sheer luck. Now, however, he remembered the old Minister's words with much more clarity.

Was this the sort of thing he had meant?

"Marlene, come look at this!" he called, glancing curiously over his shoulder.

Marlene gave him a look that plainly said, "we don't have time for this." Regardless, she snapped the laptop shut with a sigh and carried it over to the window with her. "What are we looking at?" she asked irritably.

Her eyebrows knitted together over her hazel eyes as she looked out the window. "What in the world is that?" she whispered.

The Prime Minister shook his head. "No one here seems to know." He squinted at the dark spots against the sky around which the colorful streaks seemed to be emanating; they were growing closer and moving farther apart over the river and surrounding areas of the city. They were still rather small, but it was clear they were in fact getting closer. For a moment the Minister had the wild idea _people_ were causing this distraction, but the thought was gone as soon as it had come. It was silly. People couldn't fly, let alone control this sort of light show.

"Do you think it's something we should worry about?" Marlene hissed, watching as the lights continually grew brighter and closer. She glanced at the French couple next to her, who were quite obviously eavesdropping. She wondered tartly what the point of eavesdropping was if they didn't speak the same language.

The Prime Minister's eyes darted quickly between the French woman and Marlene before nodding almost imperceptibly. "Call the authorities," he whispered into her ear. "But be discreet. No need to alarm people just yet."

Marlene nodded and began to reply, but her voice was drowned out as several screams erupted in the dining room.

"The bridge!"

"Look at that!"

A tremendous groaning and creaking sound filled the dining room and everyone watched in horror. The Westminster Bridge had been struck by several of the bright streaks, which exploded on contact. Pieces of metal and stone flew in all directions and more people in the dining room screamed as the bridge began to collapse into the river below. Vehicles and buses tumbled into the gray waters as if they were strewn about toys. The Prime Minister watched in shock as traffic approaching the bridge skidded to a halt as people began to get out of their cars.

"Everyone get out, it's coming this way!" someone shouted.

A wave of panic washed over the restaurant and the patrons made a mad dash for the exit doors at the other end of the room. A strong hand grabbed the Prime Minister's arm and pushed him toward the staircase in one corner. The Prime Minister looked up into the face of a very tall, very dark bald man he recognized as the leader of his protection service.

"Kingsley!" he cried. "What are you doing here? What the devil is going on?"

"We don't know, sir," Kingsley boomed, deftly moving himself and the Minister among the crowd. Everyone else was struggling to get into the elevator, in such a hurry they had forgotten about the staircases at either corner of the hotel. "But we have to get you out of here. NOW."

"What about the bridge?" the Prime Minister asked hurriedly. "Where's Marlene?"

Just as they reached the emergency exit doors they heard another explosion and more screams from behind them. Before Kingsley could shove him through the door, the Prime Minister turned to see the source of the noise. What he saw, coupled with the sheer terror of those around him, made his blood run cold.

Victoria Tower had just been blown up.


	9. Have A Go, Why Don't You?

Once again, thanks for all the adds!

**CHAPTER VIII  
Have A Go, Why Don't You?**

Harry was in a very foul mood by the time he and Ron joined Hermione in Defense Against the Dark Arts later that afternoon. Over lunch he had been informed that Gryffindor's tryouts—the only thing he had been looking forward to all week—had been cancelled. Someone had double-booked the field and in a coin toss between the Heads of Houses, Professor Sprout had won. Unfortunately, this meant that everyone automatically blamed the newly appointed captain—which, as of July fifteenth, was Harry.

"Well of course it's your fault," Ron was saying as they took out their books. "They don't have any sense to blame the right person, do they? They're just looking for someone to be mad at. Things'll blow over in a bit," he added, seeing the glum look on Harry's face.

"Is anyone else a bit... concerned about this class?" Hermione asked, furrowing her brow.

Ron gave her a strange look. "Should we be?"

"Yes!" Hermione looked around the classroom anxiously.

"It helps if you _tell_ us, you realize," Ron said, rolling his eyes at Harry.

"Why do we have someone from the Ministry teaching us?" Hermione continued in a hushed voice. "Snape has been after the position for years, right? Doesn't it seem far more likely that Dumbledore would give him the position rather than someone who'd criticized the school and Dumbledore himself?"

Ron twirled his wand between his fingers and tilted his head to the side. "Maybe, but what if he didn't have a choice?"

"You think he was coerced into it?" Hermione looked deeply concerned.

"Dumbledore's not exactly the kind of man who can be forced into something, in case you hadn't noticed," Harry said quietly. "Besides, I'd rather have Umbridge teaching this. The Ministry's in denial—Snape's just flat-out working for the other side."

"Harry, you don't know that—"

"He's a Death Eater, Hermione." Harry gave her a fierce look. "Once a Death Eater, always one. Have you ever heard of one turned good?"

Hermione frowned at him, a sure sign she was losing the battle. "Well, not exactly, but that doesn't mean it's not possible!"

The conversation was quelled as the door to the office swung open. The room quickly fell silent and students watched the doorway carefully, whispering to each other as Umbridge emerged. She walked crisply and purposefully over to stand behind the desk set at the front of the room. Behind her floated an orderly stack of books, and Hermione leaned over the table interestedly to see them better. Umbridge flicked her wand toward the class and the books dispersed, whizzing past students' heads and zooming beneath benches to find their way to an owner.

"Good morning, class," Umbridge said brightly, in a rather high-pitched voice. "Now, I know you all already bought your fifth-year books in Diagon Alley. But when Dumbledore appointed me Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, I realized that—oh, put your wand away, my boy, you won't be needing it—I realized it was time for a change. Henceforth, you will be studying these books instead of the ones chosen by... _other_ faculty members."

Harry looked down at the new book laying squarely in front of him on his desk. _A Collection of Works Regarding the Dark Arts_, the crisp cover read. Shooting a wary glance at Hermione, who also seemed confused, he quickly flipped through the book's pages, seeing nothing about defensive magic; all he could see were stories of ancient witches and wizards who had had brushes with the Dark Arts in their lives.

"What is this rubbish?" Ron whispered. "This won't do us any good, now, will it?"

Harry shook his head slowly. "There's no spells, no incantations, no methods in here," he said. "This isn't even a book about defense. It's just—"

"An anthology of people who have dealt with the Dark Arts," Hermione interrupted breathlessly. "I mean, it's incredibly interesting, but it still seems strange, don't you think?"

"A bit more than strange," Ron said, turning page after page. "It's like they don't want us learning any defensive spells."

"Now, everyone!" Umbridge clapped her hands together briskly and tapped her wand against her desk. An enchanted quill and roll of parchment floated up beside her, bobbing and weaving in the air. "Shall I take attendance? Miss Abbott..."

"Excuse me, Professor," Hermione said tentatively. She glanced at Harry from the corner of her eye before continuing. "I couldn't help but notice—well, it _must_ be a mistake—that these books have no techniques for magical defense in them. But surely these are the supplemental readings...?"

Umbridge smiled sweetly at Hermione. "Oh no, dear, "she said with a smile. "There is no mistake. This year we will be learning from one of our most valuable resources: books."

Hermione looked mollified for the moment, but in the back of the room Dean Thomas raised his hand.

"Yes?" Umbridge asked keenly.

"How are we supposed to defend ourselves if we don't practice?" he called.

Umbridge laughed as if Dean had just told her a joke. "Mr. Thomas, what on earth would you need to be protected _from?_" she asked sweetly. "Surely you don't think any harm can come to you inside Hogwarts?"

To Harry, this seemed like a loaded question. Dean had two options: either admit Umbridge was correct and that there was no reason to worry, or make it seem as though the school was unsafe against outside attacks. No matter what he said, he would answer wrong.

"But we don't stay here all year round," Harry pointed out. "We'll leave eventually, whether it's for Christmas, summer holiday, graduation—"

"Mr. Potter, the only thing you students need to be worrying about is passing your O.W.L.s!" Umbridge sounded cheery enough, but her rigid posture or the vehement look in her eyes might have suggested otherwise.

"So you're saying You-Know-Who isn't back then?" Ron spoke up. "You're saying there isn't a connection between the attacks and what happened at the Tournament?"

Harry looked around uneasily. It was clear as day that this was not a subject many people wanted to tread too deeply into. Many of his fellow classmates looked uncomfortable, angry, or worried. Some were glaring at Umbridge while others were doing the same as he was: looking for others' reactions.

"It's pretty easy to judge who believes he's back, isn't it?" he whispered to Ron. Ron glanced around quickly with a deep-set frown and grunted in agreement, tapping his quill in annoyance against his parchment.

"That is _exactly_ what I am saying, Mr. Weasley." Umbridge drew herself up to her full height, which was neither impressive nor intimidating by any means. "These attacks you speak of are not the work of Death Eaters. They are hoaxes created by anarchist fanatics to scare us."

"Well they're working pretty well, aren't they?" Ron said loudly. "I mean—Merlin—you'd think those giant Dark Marks over the attack sites were real or something, what with Death Eaters being the only ones who can set them off."

Harry clapped him on the back. At least he knew Ron would always back him up. Several people around the room sniggered and Umbridge's beady eyes grew wide.

"Mr. Weasley, these tricks are the ones the Ministry has warned us about!" She was visibly agitated now. "And quite frankly, we are shocked that such a clever bunch of students would be fooled so easily be these—these _lies!_ We have told you before and I will say it again: He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is _dead_."

Harry quickly spotted Jessie on the other side of the room and found himself wondering what she made of this statement. She was completely still, and beside her Aurelia sat just as immobile; her hands were clutched together on top of the desk so tightly her knuckles had begun to turn white. As Harry watched Aurelia muttered something and Jessie replied just as quickly; her lips moved so fast Harry didn't have a hope of understanding what she had said.

"And so is a student," Aurelia said loudly. "How do you explain that?"

Murmurs and whispers hissed all over the classroom like a hundred snakes and for a fleeting moment Umbridge looked like a cornered cat. Her hand clenched in a fist around the wand she held at her side.

"Mr. Diggory's... _unfortunate_ death was a horrible accident that no one could have foreseen," Umbridge said in a level, quiet voice that one supposed was an attempt at empathy. "But children, I must advise you not to fall victim to the heinous lies being spread that _Death Eaters_, of all people, were the cause of it. Everyone was made aware of how dangerous the Triwizard Tournaments are—people often get seriously injured or... or worse." Umbridge plastered a sympathetic smile on her face that might have been akin to honey-covered poison.

It was not lost on Harry that she had avoided answering Aurelia's question directly. "So you're going to stand there and expect us to believe that Cedric just dropped dead out of the blue?" he challenged. "No marks, no blood, no nothing?"

There was a collective hush around the room, and heads quickly snapped around to stare at him with rapt attention. Aside from rumors and newspaper articles, no one had actually heard any details of what had happened the night of the Tournament. Harry never spoke openly about it, and anyone who asked Dumbledore received the same answer: "I believe what Harry has told me." Because of the lack of explanation, some believed _The Daily Prophet_'s latest portrayal of Harry: an attention-seeking troublemaker who would say and do anything to stay in the spotlight.

Umbridge's beady little eyes were ablaze at this point. "The events of that night are still under investigation by the Ministry," she replied slowly. "Surely there is a logical explanation, but as no one can say for sure what happened—"

"Yeah, except _me_," Harry said hotly. "Just because you don't like what you hear doesn't mean it's alright to ignore it!"

"Mr. Potter, that is quite enough!"

Jessie sat up a bit straighter in her chair; behind her back Aurelia and Pansy exchanged similar looks that signaled dangerous territory. "Professor, I find it incredibly unlikely that his death was an _accident_, given the complete lack of evidence," Harry said rapidly, before Umbridge could interrupt him.

"Whatever you may have been told, Mr. Potter, his death _was_ a fateful mishap," Umbridge insisted, her face reddening. From the sounds of it, her teeth were clenched together. "The Ministry has it on good authority—"

"Since when does an Unforgivable Curse qualify as a _mishap_?" he snapped.

"This is completely inappropriate—"

"We all know there's only _one_ curse that can kill someone and not leave any evidence behind!" Harry said vehemently. "And who are _you_ to stand there and lie to us about our classmate? Just because you get paid off to look the other way doesn't mean—"

"_ENOUGH!_" Umbridge screeched. "Mr. Potter, fifty points from Gryffindor and you have detention with me every night for the next week!" She cleared her throat and pointed her wand at the chalkboard, which began to write on itself in a perfectly measured, loopy handwriting.

Harry settled back into his seat and glared at the short, stout woman at the front of the room. Now that she had had the last word, she seemed to have regained the air of complacency she'd at the Sorting ceremony. Hermione shot him a sympathetic look before turning her attention to her book, and Ron mimicked Harry's posture, slumping down in his seat and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Bloody crazy, that's what she is," he muttered quietly.

"Mr. Weasley, did you say something?"

"No."

* * *

_Knowing Your Charms and How to Use Them..._ _Muses, Mythology, and Magic... 1001 Ways to Charm a Mythical Creature... What to Do When Cornered by a Norblynack..._

Ginny leaned over the library table, poring over the books spread out in front of her. With a huff she blew her bangs away from her eyes and frowned. Her Charms class had been given an essay that required a lot of cross-referencing between their own textbooks and several others in the library. Unfortunately, this meant that those books, of which there no extra copies, were in high demand among her classmates. Luckily, she had gotten to them before everyone else on account of near-empty corridors and long legs after class was let out; currently she was surrounded by three other students who had had the same idea in mind but weren't fast enough.

She blinked and shook her head, trying to force her eyes to focus on the gruesome image of a man with five eyes, not all of them on his face.

Since she'd arrived back at school, she'd been having trouble concentrating. Fred had been growing stranger and more withdrawn every time she had seen him. Just this morning he had snapped at her when she jokingly reprimanded him for not eating anything. At the time she had brushed it off as early-morning grumpiness, but George had later pointed out that he was like that all the time lately.

_He __has__ been acting strange since Knockturn Alley... _she told herself.

The haunting idea that that strange candle he'd picked up could be causing his behavior had rooted itself in her head despite all the excuses she'd made up: girl troubles, fighting with George (that one had in fact been disproved by George himself), poor grades, etc. She kept trying to tell herself that couldn't be it, but what other options were there? The dark circles under his eyes and his hostile, withdrawn demeanor were very un-Fred-like, and cause for high concern in her book. She'd have written home about it, but she knew their mum would have a fit.

The blood—or _whatever_ it was—from that cursed thing had gotten onto Fred's hands. They'd all seen it, but then again they'd also seen him wipe it off. Of course, finding a Dark object in Borgin and Burkes' was more a guarantee than a possibility, and who knew what the repercussions of coming into contact with anything in there were. But how could it be having this effect on him from so far away? It just didn't make any sense.

"Hey Gin."

Ginny looked over her shoulder. "Hi Harry." Her smile faltered as she noticed the expression on his face. "What's the matter?"

Harry shrugged. "Bad day," he said brusquely.

"If it helps, _I'm_ not mad at you about tryouts," Ginny offered.

"Thanks."

"So what're you doing here?"

Harry hefted his bag on his shoulder. "Transfiguration project."

Ginny understood this immediately. The fourth-year Gryffindors usually had Transfiguration with Ravenclaws, and she had been pleasantly surprised to find out she was working with one of the smartest students in her year. "You don't sound too thrilled about it," she pointed out.

"She's a Slytherin."

Ginny wrinkled her nose. "It's not Parkinson, is it?" she asked in disgust.

Harry shook his head. "Probably worse," he said darkly. He glanced at his watch and sighed. "I'll catch you later," he said, offering her a small smile. "I've got to go and get this over with."

"Harry?"

Harry turned back to her.

"...do you have any idea how to disarm a Norblynack by using a levitation charm?"

Harry raised an eyebrow at her. "What's a Norblynack?"

Ginny snorted. "Never mind. Good luck," she added with a grimace.

"Thanks."

Harry wound his way through the library, dodging students and books that had been charmed to put themselves back after use. Eventually he found Jessie in the back corner near the restricted section with her book and a roll of parchment spread out in front of her. Since he was approaching her from the side, he didn't think she could see him; her head was slightly bent down over her work and her hair hung in a slight curtain over her face. As Harry watched her, she drummed her fingers on the tabletop several times before lifting her wand. She pointed it at the round object on the table in front of her and muttered, "_Reducto_." The object immediately burst into a cloud of dust and debris, showering the table and the floor in the immediate area. A student at a nearby table jumped at the sudden noise and stared at Jessie in alarm.

_It won't be that bad_, Harry told himself. _Just be polite—diplomatic, like Hermione said_. He took a deep breath and marched forward, sliding into the chair across the table from her. "What was that?" he asked awkwardly.

Jessie just looked up at him, as if it bothered her to pause in her activity. "It _was_ a paperweight," she replied. She frowned at her wand and then at the pile of what looked like glass with a huff.

"Something wrong?" Harry asked, not caring all too much.

Jessie twirled her wand between her fingers, still staring at the glittering heap. "I can do much better than that," she said, furrowing her brow. "It's supposed to be reduced to dust, not _pieces_."

"What's the difference?"

Jessie looked up at his question again, arching an eyebrow at him. "Doing it properly."

_Oh, this will be fun_, Harry thought dryly. _I'm never going to forgive McGonagall for this_. He took his supplies out and flipped his book open, deciding that taking notes in silence was the best course of action. At least for now.

"So what was that?" he asked again, pointedly ignoring her previous comment.

"I already told you, Potter. A paperweight. You know, people use them to keep papers still."

"I meant the spell," Harry said flatly.

"Reductor curse," she informed crisply, staring intently at her notes.

Harry just made a face at her over the top of his book.

"You might want to hurry up if you haven't started," Jessie said after a moment. This time she didn't even bother to look up. "There's a lot of material to cover." She waved her wand through the air and mumbled something under her breath, furrowing her brow.

Harry knew this. When he'd bought his Transfiguration book at Flourish and Blotts he'd been unpleasantly surprised to see it was almost the size of a dictionary. "How are you on chapter two?" Harry asked, annoyed at this. "Classes just got out fifteen minutes ago."

Jessie sighed, as if she were irritated he didn't already know the answer. "Fifth years taking Astronomy don't have a second class after lunch. I've been here for a while."

"Oh." While she was looking through her book Harry quickly turned to the second chapter, making a mental note to revisit the first chapter later that night when he and Ron could go over it in the common room together.

Twenty minutes later they hadn't said a single word to each other. All Harry could hear was the scratching of their quills and the occasional mumble as Jessie practiced a spell under her breath. Harry studied her and, after much debate, decided that trying to be borderline nice to her was worth another go.

"Jessica—" Harry started.

Jessie held one finger up to silence him, never taking her eyes off her book. "Don't call me that," she said.

"What?" he asked. "That's your name, isn't it?"

"Very good Potter, but don't call me that."

Harry eyed her strangely. "Well, what am I supposed to call you then?"

"Jess, Jessie, or whatever else you feel like—'Your Majesty' has a nice ring to it," she added thoughtfully. "Just not _Jessica_."

"Oh," he said awkwardly, frowning at her. Would it really be so hard to at least make eye contact when she was speaking to him?

"Well?"

Harry's eyes widened. "Well what?"

"I assume you started talking for a reason."

Harry bit the inside of his cheek. She was really grating on his nerves now. "Never mind," he said lamely. Quietly, he pulled out some parchment, an inkwell, and a quill and began scribbling notes about the various ways to Transfigure human beings. For five minutes they read and took notes in silence; occasionally Jessie would mutter spells under her breath, but that was the closest the pair came to talking. Before long the silence was straining on Harry and he decided he couldn't handle the awkwardness any longer. He set his quill down and cleared his throat.

"Look, um..." he began, "About what happened in class..."

Jessie sniffed derisively. "Don't," she said.

"Don't pretend you didn't know what you were doing the whole time." For the first time Jessie's eyes snapped up to meet his and Harry found that they were ablaze. "It's typical of you, really, but I figured you would've at least waited until I wasn't there to debate how he died."

"That wasn't what I..." Harry felt as though he'd been smacked upside the head. "What do you mean, _'it's typical'_?"

Jessie reached up and twisted a strand of long brown hair around her finger and leaned back in her chair to eye him unpleasantly. "I mean it's _typical_ of you to bring your issues with the Ministry out into the open. The first day of class was a bit soon, but we all knew it would happen eventually. You just can't keep your mouth shut, can you?"

Harry could feel his face getting red. "Why do you have such an issue with me?" he demanded. "What've I ever done to you?"

"You haven't done anything to me. You're just exactly how I figured you'd be."

"Oh yeah? And how's that?"

"You're Dumbledore's puppet," Jessie spat. "You do what he wants, whenever he wants. In return he says he believes you about Voldemort being back and you get to have the run of the school."

"Are you kidding? I—"

"No, Potter, I'm dead serious!" Jessie hissed. "I can't _believe_ you actually had the nerve to use my brother as evidence in your little war against the Ministry! Forget that he has friends, family—forget that I was sitting in the room while you and Umbridge battled it out over the real reason he died!"

"And why weren't _you_ saying anything?" Harry growled. "You know what happened! You were there in St. Mungo's!"

Jessie slammed her book closed. "Of course I know what happened! He got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. That's all there is to it, and yet you people keep dragging him into it like he's a checkmate piece!"

"I'm trying to let the world know what happened!"

"Like hell you are! You were just mad because she called you a liar!" Jessie shot back. "_Saint Potter_ couldn't handle the fact that someone didn't take his word for what happened, so you have a go at Umbridge in the middle of class just so you can have an audience!"

"That wasn't it at all!" Harry said angrily. "I was trying to prove a point!"

Jessie glared at him. "And what point's that? That you were there, you saw what happened, and no one except Dumbledore and your faithful sidekicks believe you? We already got that part, in case you weren't aware."

"What was I supposed to do? Let them think Umbridge was right, that Cedric died in a freak accident while no one else was around except me?" Harry was shouting now, and people were beginning to stare.

"Exactly! You were trying to clear your own name so no one would think _you_ killed him. Well, I don't think you need to worry about that, Potter. We all know you'd never have the stomach to do someone in."

"Oh, so I suppose if I need someone killed I should call on one of you lot?" Harry said angrily. "It's common knowledge that's what you all want to be when you grow up—murderers like Mummy and Daddy!"

"Oh, piss off Potter!" Jessie snapped. "You and your whole goody two-shoes band of followers make me sick. You don't know the first thing about us, but there you are, ready to condemn every last one just because of what House we were placed in!"

Harry laughed hollowly. "No, I'm _condemning_ you because you all act like slimy gits who can't wait to destroy everyone who isn't a Pureblood!" he said loudly.

Quite a few heads were turned their way and Harry suddenly realized they had an audience. He bit back a nasty remark toward them when Madam Pince appeared around the corner of a bookcase, glaring at them over her reading spectacles. "Out!" she screeched. "Get out, the both of you!" She made a motion as if she were going to attack them with the books in her hands and the two hurriedly packed their things and made their way out of the library.

"Nice one, Potter," Jessie muttered as they wound their way through the History section. "Next time try to keep your hysterics to a minimum, will you?"

"Don't worry about it," Harry snapped as they got to the large doors. "I'll talk to you as little as I can from now on. Deal?"

"Perfect."

"Great."

"Terrific." And with that she pushed aside the wooden chair in her path directly into Harry's way. He stumbled over it and barely managed to avoid falling on his face, watching the books in his arms tumble onto the floor. He looked up to yell at her but she was already gone.

* * *

Isn't it fun when partners hate each other? Review!


	10. Interlude I

**Interlude  
Chaotic Theory**

_Gloucester, Massachusetts  
September 18, 1995_

A man sat down at a cluttered kitchen table, precariously balancing a cereal bowl and a banana on top of a thick book. His reading glasses clung to the end of his nose as he peered over them to watch the female news anchor on a small television perched atop the refrigerator. As she concluded one story, her features fell into a somber pattern and she sat up a little straighter in her chair, looking directly at the camera.

"_Authorities are still investigating a strange series of events in London that occurred earlier this evening. Witnesses say they saw flashing lights over the Thames River—"_

"It's the River Thames, you idiot," he growled at the television set.

"—_watched as Victoria Tower, part of the Houses of Parliament, blew up right in front of them. Following soon after, several other buildings nearby were also attacked, including the Clairmont hotel and two small businesses. Arthur Nielson, an expert on public security and terrorism, claimed in a press conference this morning that he believed the attacks were intentional and aimed at the Parliament to send a message to Britain._

"_We have not concluded what—or who—caused the attacks,"_ a man's voice boomed as video footage of the press conference began to play on the television,_ "but since Parliament and its surrounding buildings were the only establishments to be damaged, we have reason to believe the attack on London was deliberate. We are still taking several leads into consideration, but we have not been able to conclude anything yet."_

"This morning channel seventeen news received video footage of the attacks, taken by a passerby in London. What you are about to see is strange and shocking, but as authorities cannot tell us what is happening, we cannot determine whether it is proper to censor it."

The man sat forward in his chair at the kitchen table. The banana he had been cutting up to put in his cereal lay on the table, forgotten, and the paring knife he had been using hung limply in his hand.

"Max!" he hollered.

"What?" A young boy of sixteen appeared in the doorway, hoisting a backpack stuffed with books over his shoulder. He moved over to the table and dropped the backpack on the floor with a heavy thud beside the chair pulled out for him. "You know, the yelling isn't very effective if I've already _done_ my homework." He sat down and grabbed the banana off the table and the knife from his father's hand, seemingly unaware of the older man's anxious state.

"Look!" his father urged, pointing at the television.

Max turned and watched the dazzling light show on the set for a moment, feeling a bit dizzy at the camera's unsteady position. "What the hell is that?" he asked around a mouthful of banana.

"That," his father said determinedly, jabbing his finger at the television, "is witchcraft."

Max rolled his eyes. "Oh, come _on_," he said. "There's no way. _That's_ an outdoor laser show."

"Max, those _lasers_ blew up Victoria Tower!" his father said exasperatedly. "The proof is right there!"

"You're a particle physicist, remember? You don't believe in hocus pocus crap," Max reminded. "Living on the North Shore's getting to you—can't wait to see what you're like on Halloween."

His father got up from the table and dumped his cereal bowl in the kitchen sink. "What you just saw can't be explained by _physics_," he argued. "Haven't you read any of the books in my study?"

Max snorted and swallowed the last of the banana, tossing the peel into the trash can on the opposite wall. "Nope," he said. "They're huge and boring. I've got better things to do with my time, like _not_ read them." He picked up his backpack and swung it over his shoulder, staggering a bit under the momentum of it.

"Max, my whole career is devoted to proving that things like what you just saw are possible," his father insisted. "It would do you well to pay attention to things like that in the media."

"Wait a second. So, you're examining the smallest known parts of science... to prove the existence of something that can't be _explained_ by science?" Max supplied. "Hate to break it to you, but that doesn't make any sense, Dad." He grabbed the keys off the hook hanging by the front door and threw it open, breathing in the fresh air tinged with salt. "I'm off to the library. I'm taking the truck!"

"No you're not!"

But the door was already closed. Max's father sat back down at the table and stared at the TV as the report broadcasted once more before another anchor came on to report about the economy. _He doesn't understand_, he thought darkly. _Maybe he's too young._ _He has the potential, but he still believes only what he sees_.

_He'll learn_, another part of his brain chimed in. _He's your son. It won't take long_.

With a sigh he reached across the table and picked up the heavy book with the words _The Role of Protons in the Unexplainable Universe_ stamped into the leather spine, opening it to where the bookmark had kept his place among the tiny font and months upon months of handwritten notes scribbled into the margins.


	11. An Enemy of My Enemy

"_You see what power is—holding someone else's fear in your hand and showing it to them." —Amy Tan_

**CHAPTER IX  
An Enemy of My Enemy**

By the time Jessie arrived in the common room she was teeming with irritation and clutching the strap of her backpack so tightly her hand throbbed. She knew Potter was a real prat sometimes, but she had assumed after all that time in the spotlight he would have learned a bit of tact. Obviously, she told herself angrily, she'd overestimated his abilities.

"Hey, just in time!" Aurelia called from one of the armchairs near the fireplace. In her hand was a bottle of nail polish held very gingerly so as not to smudge the color. "Fancy a manicure before dinner?"

Jessie ripped off her cardigan as she crossed the room. "I'm going for a run," she said in a clipped voice.

"Come on," Daphne urged, popping up from her spot in front of the sofa. "We deserve this after dealing with those damn Gryffindors. Look!" She held up her hands to show off a shimmery pink polish with a wide smile.

"Next time, maybe."

"Jess, it's pouring outside."

"I don't care."

Aurelia raised her eyebrows. "Was the study session that bad?" she asked.

Jessie paused at the foot of the staircase. "It's not that."

"Go on then. We'll catch up with you before Astronomy."

Ten minutes later Jessie was changed into an old tee shirt, running shorts, and athletic trainers. She cast a water repelling charm on her jacket to keep it dry and hurried out onto the grounds. The rain had worsened over the course of the day and was now coming down in torrential sheets. Even though it was only the afternoon, charcoal-colored clouds loomed low overhead and occasionally illuminated briefly as lightning shot through them.

Jessie splashed her way through mud and puddles, jogging past the greenhouses and dark classroom windows. Overhead she heard thunder rumbling. She had always liked thunderstorms; it was a trait she shared with her father. She used to sit on the front stoop of their house with him during the summer and watch for lightning bolts as rain muddied their front yard and thunder cracked in the sky. Lately she had enjoyed the rain more than she had enjoyed nice weather. Maybe it was because whenever it rained, all the buzzing activity that was present during sunny weather ceased. Or maybe it was because if she was outside when it rained, everyone else was inside and it gave her a chance to have some time to herself.

She continued over the uneven terrain until she was running alongside the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Even though she only believed half of what she heard about it, just being in close proximity to it was enough to make her somewhat jumpy. She risked a glance into the trees anyway, despite the warning in the pit of her stomach that told her not to. If she had thought the sky overhead was dark, the tangled mass of dark shapes within the Forest certainly put that to shame. A jittery bubble in her stomach burst as she thought she saw something move between the trees and she quickened her pace, changing course to head down the sloping grounds toward the lake.

* * *

"She's the bloody devil, I'm telling you!" Harry said that night at dinner. "She couldn't wait to tear into me about Dark Arts class!" He angrily stabbed at a large piece of chicken on his plate and shoved it into his mouth.

"Well, it probably wasn't the best idea to start the year off debating her brother's death," Hermione said bluntly.

Harry glared at her but didn't say anything as he chewed.

"Just think about how _she_ feels," Hermione continued. "Her brother was killed a few months ago, and her first day back at school someone brings it up in the middle of class. You'd be pretty upset too—don't try to tell me you wouldn't!" she added, seeing that Harry had opened his mouth to protest.

Harry looked to Ron for his opinion, and he groaned when his friend shrugged. "Look, I know where you're coming from, and I'm with you all the way," Ron defended, waving his fork around. A bit of mashed potato flew off the fork and landed next to Hermione's hand. "But she's got a point. Even if it's somebody you don't like, you can't exactly go waving dead family members about in their faces, you know?" He swallowed the forkful of potato and then added, "Unless it's Malfoy. Then you can do whatever the hell you want."

Harry swallowed his food and grumbled to himself. "Still, she was a real bitch about it. _'Saint Potter the Golden Boy',_" he mimicked grumpily. "All the Slytherins think I'm Dumbledore's puppet." He moved his food around his plate with his fork, suddenly not interested in eating anymore.

"Saint Potter?" Ron echoed thoughtfully. "We should put that on a plaque. Hang it in the common room."

"Harry, she's a _Slytherin_," Hermione reminded, and the bitterness in her voice wasn't lost on the two boys seated across from her. "Of course she doesn't like you. Gryffindors and Slytherins have been rivals since the school first opened—"

"But I don't get how she could be that nasty," Harry said. "I'm not chummy with them at all, but I at least made an effort. Her brother was so... nice, you know?"

Ron shrugged. "Maybe she inherited all the bad traits," he suggested around a mouthful of bread. "Cedric was the poster boy for morality and kindness and all that, wasn't he? Maybe she sucked all the evil out of him or something. You know, like a Dementor. Just in a small, fifteen-year-old package."

Harry had the sudden image of Jessie dressed like a Dementor, hovering over her sleeping brother at night like a snotty bat.

Movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he looked over as the "bat" in question strode over to the Slytherin table and sat down with her friends. She was soaked to the bone: her hair was slicked to her head and her shorts were plastered to her legs and dripping water. As she walked across the stone floor Harry could hear her trainers squeak over the din of the students.

"Speak of the devil," he said, nodding toward her. Hermione and Ron turned to watch her, too.

Ron turned and watched as Jessie sat down between her friends. "She doesn't seem so horrible, mate," he said finally. One of the girls made a joke about her appearance, pointing to her hair, and Jessie wrung her hair out and flung water droplets at her.

"How she was in class today was just the tip of the iceberg," Harry muttered.

"Yeah?"

"She shoved a chair at me while I was walking."

And to his chagrin, Ron snorted.

"What the hell is so funny?" Harry snapped.

"She's _fifteen_; of course she's going to throw a nutty sometimes. Remember how Hermione gets around exam time?" At this Hermione glared at him icily. Ron simply shrugged. "Better yet, hang around the house when Mum and Ginny square off. Gin's voice gets so high-pitched only bats can hear her."

Obviously having heard this, Ginny leaned around several people to fling mashed potatoes at Ron, who ducked behind Hermione. The potatoes instead hit Fred, who turned and gazed at his sister blankly through glazed-over eyes. He looked gaunt and pale, especially in the candlelight of the Hall. Ginny quickly muttered an apology, but Fred didn't seem to have heard her; he simply went back to his dinner silently, hunched over his plate.

* * *

At the Slytherin table, several of the upper-year boys were deeply engaged in a heated debate over which professional Quidditch team had the best defensive strategies, while the girls periodically interjected with what little information they knew.

"No way! The Finches have the best Keeper in the American league!" Blaise said vehemently, balking at Draco's speculation about the Falmouth Falcons winning that year's Quidditch World Cup.

"Who cares? That just means they're the best in the States," Draco argued. "They don't stand a chance against the Falcons' beaters."

Aurelia nudged Jessie in the side. "Watch this," she whispered. "What about the Stormers?" she loudly asked the boys seated across from her. They stopped their bickering mid-sentence and looked over at her as if she had just announced she was part goblin.

"What?!"

"You've got to be f—"

"Do you know _anything_ about Quidditch??"

Aurelia suppressed a grin and went back to her dinner as the boys angrily and uniformly denied that the Stormers had any chance of winning a tournament that year. Jessie shook her head and glanced around the Hall idly. Despite the weather, no one's moods seemed to be dampened very much. Well, at least _most_ people's weren't. At the Gryffindor table Harry seemed to be arguing with his friends about something; he'd speak to them and they'd reply, and as they did he would cross his arms or wave his fork around angrily.

"The Cannons are about as useful as Longbottom," Draco was saying dismissively, waving toward the Gryffindor table with his knife before cutting into the chicken on his plate.

Blaise grinned. "What'd you do to him, anyway? He never showed up to Divination."

This caught Jessie's attention. She swiveled back to look at Draco suspiciously, noting that he seemed especially pleased with something. He just smirked at Blaise and continued to eat his dinner silently.

Jessie craned her neck to see over students' heads to the Gryffindor table. Harry was there, flanked by Hermione and Ron like usual, and in the general group around them were several more redheads that clearly belonged to the Weasley clan. Neville Longbottom, however, was not.

"Where's Longbottom?" she asked, swiveling back to look at Draco.

He looked up at her, eyeing her as if she were nutty. "What are you on about?" he asked disdainfully.

"Your Transfiguration partner," Jessie pressed, waving toward the table accented with scarlet and gold. "He's missing."

"Well, that's a shame."

"What did you do to him?"

Draco sighed dramatically. "Who are you, the safety fairy? Didn't think you cared about Gryffindors, Diggory." He took a sip of his pumpkin juice and his eyes flickered over to the Gryffindor table briefly.

"I don't. But what's the point in torturing him?"

"To _prove_ a point, actually," Draco replied casually. "I told him not to speak to me. He did anyway."

"And?"

"He's in perfect health. Maybe."

Jessie rolled her eyes. "_Where?_"

Draco flashed her a wide grin. "Outside," he said ambiguously.

Jessie looked at Aurelia, who only shrugged.

"And what about you?" Draco swirled the contents of his goblet around lazily, leaning in toward Jessie a little. "How was your date with Potter?"

"Horrible." Jessie reached around Aurelia to grab the bowl of sweet potatoes. "No better than I thought it'd be." She paused, the serving spoon held suspended over her plate. The orange goop made a wet squelching sound as it hit her plate. "Why?" she asked suspiciously.

A knowing grin crossed Draco's features. "You were pretty upset in class today," he pointed out. Pansy ran her finger along the collar of his oxford and he ducked away from her, waving her away and scratching his neck.

"Not particularly," Jessie lied, turning to ask Daphne for the plate of roast beef down the table.

"You were. Whenever you're angry you freeze up."

Pansy, who had had her arm draped across Draco's shoulders until he swatted her away, now turned her attention to his conversation with Jessie. Her probing and suspicious brown eyes darted back and forth between the two, listening intently.

Jessie sighed and bit the corner of her mouth as she always did when she was irritated. "What's your point?" she asked brusquely.

Draco looked smug as his gray eyes met her bluer ones. "If I know you at all—and trust me, I do—you went off on him about your brother the second you got a chance. Some would call it... punishment?" He raised his eyebrows questioningly, as if daring her to argue with him.

"Again, what of it?" Jessie snapped. "You really need to learn to speed these sorts of things up, you know." She took a bite of roast beef and washed it down with her pumpkin juice, watching as Draco's eyes followed her every move. She couldn't stand it when he did that, and he knew it. Maybe that was the reason he had been doing it so much lately.

"You punished Potter for something you didn't appreciate him doing," Draco shrugged. "I punished Longbottom for something _I_ didn't appreciate _him_ doing. Not much of a difference, is there?"

Jessie watched him contemplatively for a moment and noted he looked especially smug, thinking he had the last word. "Alright, you think you know me?" she said. "Guess what happens next, then."

"Wh—"

Jessie swung her foot and kicked him sharply under the table. Draco yelped in pain and drew his wand from his pocket angrily. Aurelia snorted and shook her head, turning her attention back to her dinner.

In the next moment the doors to the Great Hall burst open and a string of flapping wings and screeches wound its way over students' heads. Dozens of owls clutching newspapers in their talons dispersed once inside the hall, ducking and swooping around one another to find their respective recipients. The papers were dropped rather unceremoniously at each of the tables, splashing in food bowls and whacking students in the head.

"Special edition?" Jessie suggested, indicating to the owls.

Aurelia just shrugged as her screech owl dropped a newspaper onto her roast beef with a squelchy _plop_. Jessie looked around for any sight of her own owl but caught no sight of Mephistopheles among the now dispersing birds overhead. "Figures," she muttered.

"Merlin... look at this," Aurelia said. She unrolled the paper and pointed to the headline:

**DEATH EATER ATTACK LEAVES FOUR DEAD, MANY MORE INJURED**

"Another one?" Jessie asked in a hushed tone, scooting closer to Aurelia to see the paper. As she began to read she heard many gasps and hushed conversations hissing like snakes all throughout the Hall. A first-year Hufflepuff began to cry and across the table Draco rolled his eyes, shooting the girl a wilting look.

_Merely an hour ago, Muggle London was alight with curses as several Death Eaters flew over the River Thames, attacking Muggles and Wizards alike and apparently at random. One Wizard eyewitness, who wishes to remain anonymous, indentified the attackers as Rodolphus and Bellatrix Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov, and Thorfinn Rowle._

"_I saw them!" he claimed. "They were shooting curses—Unforgivable Curses, no less!—left and right, up and down. They didn't care who they hit, and when people started panicking and screaming, they were laughing. __Laughing__, the bunch of terrors were!"_

_The attackers destroyed several prominent buildings, including the Muggle Ministry building and several nearby hotels and restaurants. Members of the magical community Walthus Pennichuck, Ariela Danbury, Viktoryia Finch, and Lurdon McDonnell were killed in the attack, along with at least a dozen Muggles, Ministry officials said. Many others were injured and were taken to St. Mungo's or other Muggle hospitals to be treated for injuries sustained in the attacks._

Jessie finished reading the article and looked up at her best friend. Aurelia had a habit of twining strands of her silky black hair around her fingers when she was worried, and that was exactly what she was doing then. She met Jessie's concerned gaze with arched eyebrows.

"This is bad," she said quietly.

Jessie nodded. "They don't even care about being seen," she murmured. Her eyes flickered across the table to Draco, who was browsing through the finance section of the paper now with a small smirk tucked into the corner of his mouth as if nothing unusual had happened.

The wave of anxiety and noise grew until it was flooding the Hall and crashing against the walls as students' voices became louder and more worried. Many were looking toward the Head table, waiting for Dumbledore to step forward and say something to comfort like he always did whenever something terrible has happened. But he wasn't there. His high-backed gilded chair was empty, flanked by teachers with expressions that were just as anxious as the students'. A very serious white line had formed where Professor McGonagall's mouth was. Professor Sprout had buried her face in her hands, and her shaking shoulders were covered by the arm of Professor Trelawney, who looked as though she were at a loss for something to say. Not surprisingly, the only professor who didn't seem concerned was Snape, whose calm expression never wavered as he read the article handed to him by Hagrid. The chair to Snape's left, normally occupied by Umbridge, was also empty.

"What's Sprout's problem?" Blaise asked, jerking his head toward the front of the Hall.

Aurelia rolled up the newspaper and tossed it aside, tipping over a bowl of cranberries. "Pennichuck was her maiden name, I think," she said.

Blaise's gaze fell to his plate and he shoved a spoonful of peas into his mouth silently.

"Everyone, quiet!"

At once the din was quelled as heads turned to the Head table, where Professor McGonagall was standing with her hands folded tightly in front of her. As they watched she took a visibly deep breath and looked around at everyone. "What has happened in London is a terrible tragedy," she began. "To any of you who knew the victims, we are truly sorry." The few conversations and whispers that could still be heard fell silent, and despite the warm glow of the candles overhead the Hall felt cold and unwelcoming. "While we have no control over what happens outside the grounds of Hogwarts, I shall remind you that we are continually providing extra security measures to keep all of you safe from anything—or any_one_—that may try to harm you. If any of you need to speak to someone, the doors of our offices are always open. While you are within these walls we are not just your professors—we are your family as well." She paused to take another deep breath. "Now, I suggest you all head off to bed. Classes start bright and early tomorrow morning, don't forget."

With one final sweeping glance at the faces turned toward her Professor McGonagall strode past the Head table and exited through the side door of the Hall. Plates, bowls, and goblets disappeared and with nothing else to keep them occupied in the Great Hall, students began to leave in groups, muttering amongst themselves and brandishing copies of the _Prophet_ at each other.

Harry stood up to leave with Ron and Hermione, who were now bickering about the etiquette of using people as shields during food fights. As he reached down to grab his backpack his eyes wandered over to the other side of the Hall where most of the Slytherins were exiting through a side door that would lead them down to the dungeons. His eyes came to rest on Jessie and he was surprised to see she was looking right back at him. The expression on her face was strange, perhaps the tiniest bit of worry showing through, but before he could decide what it was she had turned away from him and was ushered through the door by the Slytherin prefect, Prewett Maidor.

Ron nudged Harry's shoulder and jerked his head toward the entrance hall. Harry followed him out the door and bade Hermione goodnight at the staircase when she announced she was going to find Professor McGonagall. Neville hadn't been seen since that afternoon, she pointed out, and she was worried Malfoy might have done something to him after their Transfiguration class.

* * *

Several hours later Neville burst into the common room, reeking of fish and covered in what looked like seaweed. He ran for the showers in the boys' dormitories, claiming Malfoy had Transfigured him into a minnow and tossed him in the lake, and that he'd spent the whole evening trying to avoid being eaten by the giant squid.

Later that night, Harry would find himself pondering the obnoxious Slytherin girl's expression and Dumbledore's absence, long after everyone else had drifted off to sleep with a slight stench of fish in their noses.


	12. Siege

**CHAPTER X**_**  
**_**Siege**

_You are alone._

_I...can't be. My family...my brother..._

The voice grew more slightly more insistent, but not nearly as much as it had been in past weeks. _You are alone. They care nothing for you_.

_They do... they have to! They're my family_.

_Has history taught you nothing? Family means you share blood, nothing else. It does not indicate loyalty, nor does it imply love or companionship._

_That's not true._

It seemed that the voice laughed, just the tiniest bit. _If they cared, wouldn't they have tried to help you by now? They can see what is happening to you, and yet they sit by and watch as you deteriorate._

_I'm not deteriorating!_ he argued, making a feeble attempt to grip the sides of the porcelain sink in front of him.

_Aren't you?_ the voice taunted. _Your mind is weak, and your body is even weaker. When I look in the mirror I see another member of the Inferi._

Fred grimaced and looked at the boy staring back at him from the mirror, the boy who was terrifying and most certainly not _him_. His eyes were bloodshot and surrounded by purplish bruises, sunken into the sockets of his head. Despite his normally stocky figure, his face had lost its vibrant roundness and was now skeletal and pale beneath the thick smattering of freckles across his skin. Every movement, even blinking, seemed to be too much effort for him and he struggled to support himself against the sink.

_I'm this way because of you!_

_How can that be? I am part of YOU._

_No... you're not..._

Even he was starting to doubt that. For weeks the voice had been plaguing him, taunting him, torturing him. No matter what he did or how hard he tried, he could not evade the haunting sound; during Quidditch practice the wind rushing past his ears could not drown it out, nor could he avoid it during class when it whispered to him and distracted him from his notes. Every thought was heard by it and every glance was seen by it. There was no escaping.

_Of course I am. I have been with you since the moment of your birth. Why do you continue to fight me, to fight yourself?_

_You can't be. Why would I do this to myself?_

He was convinced he was losing his mind. Toward the end of the summer he had begun to feel tired and wan, and his mother had assumed he was coming down with something. Within days his energy had disappeared, along with his normal buoyancy and taste for mischief; since then he had felt more and more like someone else and seemed—and looked—less like himself.

_Because you feel unworthy. You feel as though you could have done better—been a stronger, more powerful wizard. After all, Purebloods have the most potent magic in their veins._

Perhaps it was the stress of seventh year and trying to determine his future career, or maybe it was a family trait. Perhaps he had been cursed by George, and it had gone wrong. Hearing his own voice constantly argue with him drove him mad and constantly made him feel angry, though he hardly had the energy to show it. He could not be sure why he was doing this to himself, but he found himself clinging to the idea that whatever sickness he had had affected his brain and he had gone crazy.

_You keep fighting yourself, and look what trouble it is causing,_ the voice purred._ Why not give in and become the wizard you were meant to be?_

_Maybe I should._

Fred slowly looked up into the mirror again and it seemed to him that his chocolate-brown eyes, amid the bleary red signaling exhaustion, looked just a bit darker than they should have been.


	13. Residuum

**CHAPTER X  
Residuum**

Draco's eyes drifted over to the girl sitting sideways in the oversized green armchair across from him. She had long since discarded her running outfit, which Draco had noted at dinner smelled like mud and wet grass, and was now dressed in lilac pajamas. Her long hair had been washed and thrown up into a quick ponytail, from which a few strands still escaped and hung down the back of her neck. Her legs dangled over the arm of the chair, occasionally swinging back and forth when she took a moment to pause in her writing.

_She thinks I don't know her?_ he thought in amusement. _I knew her before anyone else did! Before she met Pansy, or before she became best friends with the richest girl here. I knew her when she was half as tall as she is now... which still isn't very_.

He frowned a bit as he studied her, his own homework forgotten for the moment. Aside from the usual ways in which girls change during their teenage years, she didn't seem to have varied much from the skinny, dirty-kneed girl he'd met years ago. She was still just as stubborn, just as emotional, just as proud.

And if she was so proud, he wondered, why hadn't she spoken up today about dear brother Cedric? She just sat back and let Saint Potter steal the spotlight. She could have shut him up with one scathing comment, but she just sat there and listened. Was it because she didn't want to draw attention to herself? Or because she wanted answers to the same questions Potter had asked?

He wondered what she was thinking. She had paused in her note-taking a minute ago and was staring into the fire with an oddly blank look on her face, her quill poised above the parchment.

Draco smirked to himself. She was probably _still_ mad at Potter about class.

He had to admit he had been rather excited when Cedric's death had been brought up. His father was relying on him to discover as much as he could from that Umbridge woman about where exactly the Ministry stood on the topic of Voldemort's return. And after today's battle in class, he was pretty certain where that was. He had gone up to the owlery and written to his father immediately after class, and he was impatiently awaiting the recognition he deserved for helping the greater cause.

As if Jessie sensed him watching her, she seemed to snap to attention and her eyes darted over to him several times before fixing him with an annoyed stare.

"What?" she said flatly.

_She hates being stared at_, Draco told himself smugly.

"Nothing," he said lightly as he went back to his own work. "Just observing."

Jessie's eyes narrowed in suspicion and then went back to her homework, shaking her head a bit.

"Are you still upset about Longbottom?" he asked after a moment.

Jessie arched annoyed eyebrows at him. "You're an idiot to do what you did," she replied.

Draco smirked. "And why's that?" he teased. "Getting softhearted, are we? I knew you didn't have it in you."

"He could have died," Jessie pointed out. "And you lost us fifty points."

"House rivalry, Diggory. It's _fun_." Draco rolled his eyes and looked back down at his Potions homework with disdain. They had been assigned a two-foot-long essay on the most effective ingredients to use in a Blood-Replenishing Potion, and no matter how large Draco made his handwriting, he was sure it wouldn't be long enough.

"If you want to bring yourself down, fine. But don't drag us down with you."

"Oh boo-hoo."

Jessie shot him a reproachful look from the corner of her eye. "There's a difference between rivalry and bullying." She rolled her parchment up, capped her inkwell, and tossed them into her backpack.

"Well, princess, why don't you enlighten me?" Draco drawled. "What _is_ the difference in your naïve little world?"

Snapping her book shut, Jessie swung her head to glare at him. "Did your father resort to bullying when he was here too?" she asked nastily. "Picking on people because you're too dim-witted to outsmart them must run in your family."

Draco smile darkly at her and twirled his quill in his hand, pleased with her reaction. He sometimes found himself wondering why he sought to irritate her so much. He'd known tonight that hinting to her about Longbottom's "unfortunate" circumstances at dinner would have gotten her riled up. In fact, somewhere deep down he probably knew she was going to kick him after he'd proven his point. The only logical explanation he could come up with was that he_ liked_ to make her angry. When she was in a rage and ready to curse someone—namely him, he was _happy_.

Something about that didn't seem quite right, he noted.

He said nothing more to her, but rather waited until she finished her homework and went up to the girls' dormitories. Moments later he slipped out of the common room and headed to the owlery. There was plenty of information to tell his father, and surely he would be rewarded for it. Perhaps he would be able to purchase things on his father's account at shops in Knockturn Alley, or maybe he would be allowed to sit in on those ever-so-important meetings his father held at the Manor.

"The Knights are more crucial than ever," he had been told over the summer. "There is change on the horizon."

* * *

The mood in Charms the next afternoon was unusually dark for a day that had dawned so clear and bright. Even as he charmed Lavender Brown's textbook to catch fire, Professor Flitwick seemed to have lost his normally buoyant mood. He was rather preoccupied and forgot to perform the countercharm, causing the book to ignite the table Lavender and Parvati Patil were seated at.

"...and he was gone all night," Hermione was telling Harry and Ron in hushed tones. As if she were afraid she would miss something, she furtively glanced to the front of the room numerous times in a row, seeming as though she were shaking her head. "I finally caught up with him this morning and he said he'd been at St. Mungo's all night trying to figure out what happened in London."

"We already know what happened," Ron hissed impatiently. "Bloody Death Eaters went on a rampage!"

"Yes, but that was just according to one person's account," Hermione replied. She glanced toward Professor Flitwick again, who had apparently doused the flaming table with water, and leaned in toward Ron a bit. "I think Dumbledore went to make sure that eyewitness was still alive," she whispered.

An uneasy crease formed in Ron's brow as he frowned at her. "You really think they'd go after whoever it was?" he asked doubtfully. "After all, they wanted the attention. That's why they pulled the stunt in the first place. It's a lot of effort to go through, just to find someone who anonymously reported them..."

"They may not have to," Hermione whispered. "There have been a lot of rumors about Voldemort supporters working inside the _Prophet_. If so, it wouldn't be too difficult for them to find out who it was. All they'd have to do is threaten whoever wrote the article."

Beside them Harry listened with clenched teeth and tightly scrunched eyes hidden behind his hand, pretending to be taking notes. While Hermione had spoken, his head had suddenly begun to throb painfully and it took a good deal of his strength not to cry out from the intensity of it. Erratic and drum-like, it felt as though his own heartbeat was pounding right between his ears, only much louder. He ground his teeth together with so much force he was sure they would break, but the pain in his jaw was nothing compared to the pain, the heartbeat, the hollow rushing sound in his head.

It was quite possible he was imagining it, but the rushing sounded like whispers he couldn't make out. It seemed as though hundreds of tiny voices cursed him, condemned him, beckoned to him until he could no longer hear what Ron or Hermione were saying. He squeezed his eyes shut so tightly to steel himself against the rush of sudden anger he felt toward those voices that he saw spots behind his eyelids. The pain and the anger bubbled up and fed off one other until his head was filled only with indescribable pain and hatred—hatred for the whispering voices, for the people around him, for everyone who had ever wronged him.

_Harry_, one of the rushing whispers called softly. _Harry_...

_Stop it!_ his brain screamed. _STOP!_

"Harry!"

Harry's eyes snapped open. The pain in his head, the voices, the anger... they were all gone. The only pain he felt now was something sharp jabbing at his ribs.

"Did you fall asleep?" Ron hissed, fixing him with a curious stare. "Looked like you were dreaming."

Harry looked around the room. Professor Flitwick was explaining something in their textbooks to Dean and Seamus on the other side of the room, and Parvati and Lavender were soaked from head to toe and sitting back away from their table, the top of which looked as though it had been caught in an inferno. No one was paying any attention to him or looking curiously in his direction. Was it possible he had imagined everything?

Hermione leaned around Ron and looked at Harry worriedly. "Are you alright? Your face is bright red."

"I'm fine," Harry lied, rubbing his hands over his face. He noticed his hands were shaking, but it didn't appear as though either of his friends noticed. _I couldn't have imagined it_, he told himself. _Even my dreams aren't that bad_. He touched a finger to his scar carefully, half-expecting it to be burning. Whenever he heard voices or saw something through someone else's—through _Voldemort's_—eyes, his scar always hurt. But this time he felt nothing except slightly warm skin.

Professor Flitwick let them out of class early, seeming just as troubled as Harry had throughout class. As the Gryffindors filed out of the classroom he could be heard mumbling to himself and shuffling through disorganized papers on his desk.

The trio had hardly turned into the corridor that led back to Gryffindor tower when someone grabbed Ron by the elbow and yanked him roughly.

"Weasel!"

Ron came to a jolting halt and turned to come nose to nose with Draco Malfoy, who looked angrier than any of them had seen him in quite a while. "What the hell do you want?" Ron said angrily. "Aren't you afraid coming into contact with me will dirty your blood or something?" He indicated Draco's hand, which was still firmly clenched around his arm.

Draco released him and glared at Ron. "Keep your brother away from me!" he growled. He took a step back and Harry noticed he kept all his weight on his left foot; his right hovered not even an inch off the floor.

"What are you on about?" Ron asked. "My brothers haven't done anything to you—not that you don't _deserve_ it—"

"Like hell!" Draco argued. "One of them bloody attacked me last night!" He glanced around to be sure no one heard him. "Listen, Weasel. I know you're not that smart, but try to follow along here, alright?"

"What the hell were you doing near any of my siblings?" Ron demanded. "Last I knew you try to make a point to avoid us."

Draco rolled his eyes. "That I do, Weasel, and for good reason. I went up to the owlery and he jumped me. He was arguing with himself or something in the corner. All I did was make one crack about his clothes and it was like he snapped."

"Serves you right then—"

"So why are you telling _us_ this?" Harry interrupted, taking half a step forward. "You don't care about Fred."

"Ah, but you knowing which one it was says something, doesn't it?" Draco sneered. "I don't care what you do about him, Weasel, but keep him _away_ from me. I'll kill him the next time he tries something."

He turned and strode off through the crowd, limping slightly as he pushed a second-year out of his path. Harry and Hermione exchanged worried glances behind Ron's back, both thinking the same thing: they needed to find Dumbledore. Ron turned to them with a stricken look on his face, mumbled, "I'm gonna go find Fred," and took off toward Gryffindor tower. He had hardly disappeared at the top of the staircase when the other two hurried back in the direction of Dumbledore's office.

* * *

I know, it's been a really long time. It's getting harder and harder to find spare time to get anything written and it's driving me insane!!


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